


Tender Jar

by TheSecretAdmirer



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, F/M, Healing, Love Triangles, Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-03-03 13:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 70,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13342311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSecretAdmirer/pseuds/TheSecretAdmirer
Summary: Six months after the war, Elain is still mourning all that the cauldron took from her, and it’s only Azriel she trusts not to judge her for her brokenness. However, when she has a vision concerning both Lucien and Graysen, she steels her courage and braves first the Spring Court and then the Mortal World, Azriel at her side. When lines are drawn and Elain is pushed to her emotional limit, she must decide whether she will let her past shatter her or give in to the desires of her tender heart.





	1. Part I

“Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness, and the infinite tenderness shattered you like a jar”  
-Pablo Neruda

Part I:

Elan sat, hidden, on the second story balcony of the townhouse’s palatial library, twisting Graysen’s ring around her slim finger and listening as Feyre’s inner circle discussed her like a problem to be solved. Like a taxing, overdue problem they had to solve.

It had been a long six months since the war ended, and though Feyre and the others might not see it, Elain was trying to get better. To be better. To be less—whatever it was she’d become after crawling out of that cauldron. What her sister didn’t seem to appreciate, despite her own struggles, was that Elain was facing different demons. Furthermore, she was a different person who coped with grief differently. Elan loved Feyre’s indomitable willingness to shred her skin and become someone else—someone better—when circumstance dictated it, but that wasn’t Elain. She could see the disappointment on her sister’s faces as month after month she failed to make drastic improvements in her health and mental state, but she was getting better. 

If she was a bolder person, she would have marched down there and told them so, screamed it into their faces until they were forced to listen. Instead, she remained in the belly of the nearest column’s shadow, twirling the ring and worrying at her lower lip with her teeth, furious and humiliated in equal measure.

“I’m worried,” Feyre said, idly running her hand through Rhysand’s hair as she sat perched on his lap in one of the wingback armchairs. “She’s not eating, and she’s still wearing that ring. I thought surely by now—and with Lucien…” she trailed off, and Elain’s grip on the ring tightened, even as she continued to twist the iron band around and around.

“Maybe we should set up a meeting with Graysen and his father,” Mor suggested. “You know, so she can—“

“So she can what?” Cassian interrupted, polished boots kicked up on the circular table at the centre of the room. “The man’s a prick, and she’s better off without him.”

Nesta, who sat on the chair opposite Rhys and Feyre, pursed her lips.

“I agree,” she said.

At this, Cassian grinned.

“Don’t agree with me, sweetheart. It makes me very uncomfortable.”

Nesta, who had changed in her own ways since the war, forewent her usual cutting reply, but Rhys gave his friend a hard look. 

“Knock it off. This is serious.”

“What do you think, Az?” Feyre said. “You’re the only one she ever seems to open up to these days.”

At this, everyone turned to look at the Shadowsinger, who stood in the corner of the room with arms crossed. Of all the attendees, Elain couldn’t deny that his presence hurt the most. Feyre was right: of all of their inner circle, it was only Azriel who seemed to see Elain for who she really was. The only one who didn’t demand she contort her grief into something constructive.

Azriel shifted on his feet, wings rustling the bookcase behind him. His eyes, the color of a well-aged cognac, surveyed the group, and Elain bit down harder on her lower lip, willing him—despite his High Lady’s directive—to say nothing.

“I think,” he began. “That she is young, and impressionable, and that she’s been through a great deal in a short time. And that’s to say nothing of the burden she bears with the foresight or the situation with Vanserra.”

Cassian snorted.

“How elucidating, brother.”

“What are you suggesting we do, then?” Rhys said, ignoring Cassian. “Nothing?”

The shadows around Azriel deepened a shade, writhing over his feet by reaching no higher than his tall boots.

“We give her space,” he said finally. “And we continue watching her to make sure she doesn’t lose the progress she’s made. It’s more than any of you give her credit for.”

Elain’s throat burned. It had been humiliating enough to listen to her sisters dissect her brokenness. To know that Azriel had been doing it too was almost too much to bear.

“You want to spy on her,” Nesta clarified, the steel she’d spared Cassian sliding, razor-sharp, into her tone. “Of course you do.”

“Peace, Nesta,” Feyre said, and where she once might have snarled back, Nesta only clenched her jaw.

Even she had lost faith in Elain, it seemed. 

After a tense volley of eye-contact with Feyre, Nesta looked down at her lap, and Feyre turned to Cassian.

“What do you think?”

The mirth had bled from Cassian’s rugged features, and he studied the eldest Archeron sister before looking back to the youngest.

“I think you make a good point. She seems to like Az the best anyways. I don’t seem the harm in letting him keep and eye on her and possibly find out why she’s still wearing that sodding engagement ring.”

“So not just spy on her, then,” Nesta said, familiar barbarous tone returning. “Seduce her, too, if the circumstance warrants it.”

“C’mon, Nes, that’s not what I mean and you know it.”

“It’s not healthy to pine,” Azriel said quietly, and Elain’s eyes prickled with humiliated tears. Is that what he thought she was doing? Pining? She might have expected something that callous from Nesta, or even Feyre, but never him. “And with Vanserra coming back—we need to know what to expect.”

Elain felt the first of her tears skid down her slightly-hollowed cheek as no one objected.

“For the record,” Nesta said finally. “I don’t like this. And if you upset her, or lay even one filthy, unworthy hand on her, I will rip off your wings and make a dress out of their tanned hides.”

“Nesta!” Feyre squawked.

Azriel’s magnifiscent wings flexed behind him as he clenched and clenched said hands, hard enough for the scars on them to stand out, moon white, against his bronze skin. Elain wondered, despite her own humiliation, if Nesta had chosen that barb on purpose, knowing his scarred hands were Azriel’s sore spot. His eyes were indescribably cold, but beneath their chill lay an undercurrent of keen sorrow and shame. 

However, Elain’s sympathy burned away and her tears began anew when the Shadowsinger merely gave Nesta a dismissive look and said, “don’t tell me how to handle your sister. I know her a lot better than you think, shrew.”

It was all Elain needed to hear. Not bothering to stay for Nesta’s snarled retort, she slipped from the balcony like the wraith she was, unable to hide her tears from the servants as she retreated out to the garden.

It was late Autumn, and the air held a portent of winter’s chill as it tugged as the skirt of Elain’s gown. She didn’t much care. Hating herself for proving them all right, she collapsed onto the stone bench near the back and began to sob.

She was ashamed. Ashamed that she couldn’t find a way to pick up the pieces of her broken life and make something new from it, like her sisters had. 

Ashamed that despite everything, she couldn’t bring herself to take Graysen’s ring off, or read any of the dozens of letters Lucien had written her since he’d left for the Southern continent. Ashamed to learn that Azriel, whom she’d considered her friend, had been at her side all these months out of obligation to his High Lord and Lady. And ashamed to realise she was as she’d always feared: a burden to her family.

All of it roiled in her gut, mixing with the heady, ever-present buzz of the mating bond, which beat like a second pulse under her skin and made her feel ill. 

She wished so badly to be different, to have Feyre’s courage or Nesta’s fire, but when she looked inside, all she found was cowardice, yellow-bellied and soft.

She heard the sound of careful footfall from behind her, and she didn’t need to turn to know who it was. A moment later, his cool masculine scent—a mixture of balsam fir and eucalyptus—washed over her as he approached. It was a scent she realised she’d begun to think of as a safe harbour, and the thought only made her cry harder.

“Elain,” Azriel, murmured gently, kneeling at her feet and making a supplicating gesture. “What is it?“

“Go away!” she sobbed, shoving his hands back, which were as rough as his face was smooth. “I don’t want to speak to you.”

He rocked back onto his heels, keen eyes assessing her even as shadows curled at his collar. 

“You were in the library,” he surmised, and she only cried harder into her hands, feeling more ashamed than ever. 

“I’m not stupid,” she choked quietly, finally mastering her tears, or perhaps simply just running out of any to cry.

“I know that. We all know that.”

“That’s not how you treat me. I know I’m broken, and possibly mad, but I—“

Azriel reached a tentative hand out to touch her shoulder, and it ignited a small kernel of rage in her belly. One that reminded Elain that despite everything, she was still Nesta Archeron’s sister. 

“And you’re a hypocrite,” she leveled at him, voice trembling and weak as she rose to her feet and backed away from him. “If I am pining, what is it you are doing with Morrigan? At least Graysen has a good reason for not wanting me. ”

At Mor’s mention, Azriel stiffened, the light in his eyes going colder than moonlight. Some part of Elain was horrified by how true she’d struck, and how deep, but when she thought of the way he’d dissected her pain in front of the others, the apology welled shut in her throat.

Azriel offered no response to her abuse, only hung his head as shadows gathered more firmly around him. There had always been a quiet but tender warmth to him in her eyes, but as Elain watched him, breaths coming slow, she could feel the cold rage that his enemies so feared in him. What little petty courage she’d mustered to denigrate him withered, and she took off for her own room.

It was only hours later, when her tears had finally dried up and she lay awake, that her cruelty struck her. She had been many things in her life—weak, selfish, oblivious, cowardly—but she’d never been cruel. Especially not to someone who had been as kind to her, as indulgent of her brokenness, as Azriel had. Azriel, who had risked everything to rescue her from Hybern, and who had furnished her with the blade that avenged her father’s death. She was still angry with him for agreeing to Feyre’s interference in Elain’s life, but she didn’t have it in her heart to hold grudges, or to let an apology as necessary as this one go unsaid. 

Rising, she put on a dressing gown over her nightclothes and tiptoed to the room on the third floor he often slept in, hoping as she ascended that he hadn’t returned to the House of Wind. An odd mix of relief and terror and guilt struck her as she approached the door and saw a dim light pouring out from beneath it.

Her hand shook as she raised it to knock, and a minute later it swung in. If Azriel was surprised to see her there, he didn’t show it, though a spectre of agony crossed his face, disguised as a shadow from the fae lamp on his desk.  
“Azriel,” she breathed, having to crane her neck to look up into his face, even with it tilted down to watch her. Though he was not as broad of shoulder or as thick of neck as Cassian, he still stood at nearly six and a half feet, and in slippers, she barely reached his collarbone. She looked down, studying the way said collarbone—covered in Illyrian ink—arced gracefully into his partially unbuttoned shirt. She realised she never seen him out of his fighting leather, never noticed how soft the skin on his chest—she shook her head, cheek burning.  
“Azriel,” she began again. “I came to—“

“Don’t,” he said, voice distant. “You were right to be upset. And nothing you said was untrue.”

Her throat felt bone-dry, and a horrid buzzing started in her ears at the waves of shame rolling off of him even as the shadows did as well. In all the time they’d spent together, he’d never spoken about Mor, and she’s been too shy and too wrapped up in her own grief to ask. 

“But I—“ she began, determined to she explain that she’d merely been angry, and that she didn’t believe any of it, when a wave of true nausea hit her, along with a vision of a fox and a wolf racing away from a blazing inferno. 

She felt herself go boneless as the vision took root in her mind, and she didn’t have time to even call out before she was collapsing the ground in a searing kaleidoscope of colour and sound.


	2. Part II

****_“Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness, and the infinite tenderness shattered you like a jar”_

> _-Pablo Neruda_

Elain’s eyes flickered open, and she felt a heady, roiling shame at the realisation that she’d lost consciousness and—considering that she was lying on Azriel’s meticulously made bed—that he’d had to carry her.

She sat up, and the shame bubbled over when she realised her dressing gown had fallen open, and that her breasts were clearly visible through the thing cotton of her nightgown. She hastily drew the robe together to cover herself, but Azriel wasn’t looking at her chest. His keen eyes were instead fixed on her face, studying her as shadows curled around him like wisps of smoke.

“How long was I—“ she began, cheeks heating as his eyes continued to arc gracefully back and forward across her face.

“Less than a minute,” he replied. “What did you see?”

She flushed again. She supposed she ought not to be surprised that as a Shadowsinger, he could tell she’d had a vision, but it made her feel oddly exposed.

“I—“ she began, swallowing thickly. “I’m not sure.”

He straightened, crossing to a where a pitcher of water and several hammered bronze goblets sat on a table across the room. Pouring her a small measure. he crossed back and extended the goblet to her. He had a fluid, almost hypnotic gate, like that of a jungle cat. Silent, but lethal.

“Take your time,” he said, pulling up a chair next to the bed and settling into it. “Tell me anything you remember.”

She considered, biting her lower lip.

“There was a fox,” she said finally. “And a wolf. They were—they were running.”

He nodded, eyes still on her face.

“Running from what?”

She strained to reach the answer, trying to sort of the vision from her nightmares, which often rushed in when the visions wore at her mind’s defenses.

“A fire.”

He leaned back in his seat, and she could see something storming in his eyes.

“Your—“ he paused, as if taking care to choose his words. “Lord Graysen,” he began again. “What was the sigil of his house?”

She blanched, not only at Graysen’s mention, but at the realisation.

“A wolf.”

He nodded, uncoiling to his feet.

“I need to speak to Rhys and Cassian. You can stay here, if you like, or I can—“

“I want to come with you,” she said, unsure of where the boldness to say it came from.

He didn’t immediately respond, and she struggled to her feet.

“I don’t—“ she broke off, looking down at her feet. “Please, I don’t want to stand aside any longer.”

Finally, he nodded.

“Cassian’s on the roof. Perhaps you could fetch him. I’ll meet you in the library in ten minutes.”

This time it was her turn to nod, and she did so mutely. He studied her for a final second, his full lips even parting as if he meant to speak. However, in the end he said nothing, and with a courteous dip of his head, he disappeared from the room.

When he’d gone, she hurried to her own room to change before ascending the stairs to the roof. Cassian was indeed there,  and Elain wondered absently whether Azriel simply knew his brother that well, or if his shadows had told him where the Lord Commander would be. However, the query faded when she realised he wasn’t alone.

Nest stood beside him, partially obscured by the arc of his half-outstretched wing. They spoke in tones so low even Elain’s fae ears couldn’t pick of the words, but the way they were positioned towards one another—no more than six inches between their bodies—said enough.

Elan felt embarrassed at having caught her sister so compromised. Not that they were in a particularly compromising position, but she was tight-lipped about whatever it was that radiated between her and Cassian, and she’d made it tacitly clear it was not something she wished to discuss with her sisters.

However, Elain saw no real way around it.

“Cassian,” she said, her voice wavering a little.

Cassian turned sharply at his name, and Nesta leapt away from him as if he’d burned her, flashing him a glare even as a crimson tide swept over her cheeks.

“Elain,” Nesta said, tone sharpened by what Elain could tell was embarrassment. “It’s late. What are you doing awake?”

“Peace, woman,” Cassian chided, the wing that had half cradled Nesta folding against his back as he turned to Elain. “She’s not a child.”

At this, Elain’s cheeks heated, and she felt the humiliation and anger from the meeting they’d had to discuss her bubbling up again. She knew he’d only said it to goad Nesta; deep down, he did seem to see her like a child, weak and in need of protection. They all did, she feared.

“What do you need, pet?” Cassian asked her, and Nesta scowl only deepened, shaded by something darker now.

“Azriel needs to speak with you and Rhys in the library.”

“About what?” Nesta said. Elan could see in her posture that no matter her answer, Nesta intended to go as well.

“He—we—will explain downstairs.”

Cassian and Nesta exchanged a look so entangled with meaning Elain couldn’t begin to unravel it.

“Shall we, then?” he said, not waiting for a reply as he swept past Nesta, close enough to rustle her skirts, and back down the stairs.

Elain made to follow him, but Nesta caught her arm, expression less guarded and harsh now that they were alone.

“Elain, about what you saw—“

Elain knew what she was asking, what she hoping to explain away. Elain gently shook her hand off, lifting her skirts to follow Cassian.

“Perhaps I’ll convene a secret meeting and discuss it with the others behind your back,” she said, not bothering to cover the hurt in her eyes.

She turned on her heel, descending the stairs and heading into the library, where Feyre and Rhys sat conversing at the table and Azriel stood at his usual post in the corner. His eyes watched her as she came in, scanning her for distress. She wished he wouldn’t look at her like that.

Before she could stop herself, she thought about the way Graysen used to look at her when they’d made love, as if she was beautiful and strong and everything he could ever want. She wondered if anyone would look at her that way again. Even Lucien, who sometimes failed to keep his knee-wobbling desire to mate and claim her from drifting down their bond, only ever looked at her the way Azriel was now, as if she might shatter at any moment.

Cassian, somehow, was not yet there, and Elain had to wonder if he’d gone back to speak to Nesta before the meeting. Indeed, when Nesta strode in a minute later, Cassian was on her heels. Elain watched Mor assess the pair with scrutiny from where the blonde sat across the room, and she felt a nauseating regret in re-remembering the cruel things she’d said to Azriel about Mor. She needed to apologise again properly when this was over.

“So what’s this about?” Rhys said when they were all seated. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Are we keeping you up, old man?” Cassian said, grinning.

“I was awake,” Rhys purred back, crushed violet eyes glittering. “But what Feyre and I were doing was certainly more diverting than having to look at you.”

“Rhys, cauldron!” Feyre said, slapping him on the leg and making him wince through his smirk. “Don’t air our business like that!”

“It’s hardly a secret,” Mor said with a wicked little smile of her own. “You’re rather lou—“

“That’s enough,” Azriel said. “This is important.”

“Well don’t keep us in suspense, brother,” Cassian said. “Out with it.”

Azriel glanced at Elain, silently giving her permission to speak if she wanted it.

“I—“ she began, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on her again. “I had a vision.”

At this everyone straightened, all merriment bled from the room.

“About what?” Mor finally prompted.

Her gaze was in no way unkind, but it full of the same pity the others always seemed to shower her with, and it made Elain sick and angry all at once.

“There was a wolf and a fox, and they were running from a blazing fire.”

“Vanserra,” Cassian said darkly, and Azriel nodded.

“The wolf?” Rhys asked.

“That’s Lord Nolan’s sigil,” Feyre said quietly. “Wasn’t Graysen appointed to Vassa’s court, to help keep order until she’d freed?”

Elain felt her stomach tying in knots at the news. She couldn’t help but feel another stab of betrayal. They’d had news, word of Graysen, and they’d kept it from her for fear of her reaction. She glanced up at Azriel again and he was watching her, as if he sensed this would hurt her.

“So Graysen’s the wolf, and Lucien the fox,” Feyre said. “But surely Vassa can’t be the fire. She would never hurt Lucien. They’re—“ she paused, eyes flicking to Elain. “friends.”

“She’s not her own master,” Cassian pointed out. “She could be a weapon in her keeper’s hands, if he wished it.”

Elian’s mouth watered as if she might be sick. She still had no idea what she felt for Lucien, but she certainly didn’t want to see him hurt.

“Where is Lucien now?” Mor asked.

“Spring,” Rhys said with a derisive eyeroll. “Dealing with his esteemed majesty, Lord Asshole Supreme.“

“Rhys,” Feyre chided, but Elain could see she was holding back a smile of her own.

“But he’s due to leave for Vassa’s court in several days,” Azriel said. “We should intercept him before he goes.”

“How?” Cassian said, snorting. “We aren’t exactly welcome guests in Spring, and I don’t think we should be putting any of this in a letter.”

“I—“ Elain began, throat suddenly dry. “I’ll go. Tamlin has no real reason to dislike me, and it would be bad form to deny me access to my mate.”

She could feel everyone tense at the idea, a volley of eye contact bouncing between them as if they were collectively remembering their discussion earlier.

“She can’t go alone,” Nesta pointed out.

“I’ll go with her,” Azriel volunteered, eyes on Elain again. “I would say of the three of us, Tamlin hates me the least.”

“A very low bar,” Cassian pointed out dryly.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Feyre said, watching Elain as if she were a violet in snow. “Things with Spring are still too raw.”

“We could wait until Lucien sends word he’d left, and intercept him before he goes,” Mor offered.

“He’s not going to walk to the continent,” Cassian pointed out. “We will have a hell of a time catching him while he’s traveling, and Mother only knows what is waiting for him at that court.”

“What about—“ Feyre said, glancing at Elain again. “Graysen? He could be in danger as well.”

“I say we leave him to fate,” Cassian grumbled, but Nesta elbowed him.

“Let’s get Vanserra to Velaris first, and then I will go to Vassa’s court and get the boy,” Azriel said quietly.

Elain bit her lip, hating that the idea of Graysen in danger made her want to cry even now, more so than the idea of Lucien in the same danger.

“I still don’t like the idea of Elain going to Spring,” Feyre said, addressing the others more than Elain.

“I’m not a child,” Elain said quietly. “And I’m not as weak as you think.”

Feyre gave her a penitent look.

“I don’t think you’re weak,” she said gently. “But I also don’t think you’re strong enough for this. As your sister and your High Lady, I can’t condone it.”

“I agree with Feyre,” Nesta said, speaking to the group as well. “Elain’s place is here, where we can look out for her.

“Lucien is my mate,” Elain said with more conviction than she felt. “And they were my visions. I wish to go. To help, if I can.”

Nesta opened her mouth to object, more sharply this time, Elain was sure, but she cut her sister off.

“If it was Cassian in danger, I would not presume to tell you to remain here and do nothing.”

A tense, buzzing silence hung in the air as Nesta’s paled slightly.

“I’ll be with her,” Azriel said.

“That does very little to comfort me,” Nesta snarled at him, pearly teeth bared.

“She couldn’t be in safer hands,” Rhys reasoned, ignoring Nesta and speaking more to Feyre than anyone else. “And she’s right. If it were you that was in danger, I would want to be the one to go.”

“But she and Lucien—“ Feyre broke off, looking sheepish.

“You can say it,” Elain said, her voice soft as a child’s. “I have not accepted Lucien’s claim. We do not love each other as you do.”

“I’m sorry, Elain,” Feyre said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“He’s still my mate,” Elain said, taking courage in her conviction. “I still feel him through the bond. It would be agony for me to stay if he were in distress. Physical agony. You know that.”

Feyre bowed her head.

“You’re right,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“So it’s settled, then,” Rhys said. “You two go to Spring and fetch Lucien. Elain, you’ll need to send the missive yourself, but I can write it for you if—“

“I was almost the wife of a lord,” she said quietly. “I know how to speak to gentry. Though perhaps—“

she glanced up, cheeks heating slightly as she met Azriel’s eye.

He nodded his assent.

“I can help you,” he said in answer.

“Tomorrow,” Rhys said. “It’s nearly rutting sunrise.”

He signaled the end of the meeting by rising and offering a hand to Feyre. They said their goodnights and left.

“There’s still a few good hours left,” Mor announced. “I’m going to Rita’s. Do any of you want to join me?”

Her eyes flitted over Azriel before settling more fully on Cassian. Elain could see no change in Azriel’s expression at the subtle rejection, but the shadows around him grew a shade deeper as Mor began cajoling Cassian.

“Why aren’t you bothering Az about it?” Cassian demanded, making a pointed effort not to the look in Nesta’s specific direction.

Mor gave Azriel a smiling so blindingly bright that Elain could swear she saw the reflection of its glow in his amber eyes.

“Az has to get up early and prepare to go to Spring,” she said. “And he hates Rita’s.”

“No I don’t,” he said in a quiet but neutral tone.

“Yes you do,” Mor said with affection. “So you’re off the hook. You,” she pointed at Cassian. “Have no such excuses.”

“Fuck off, Morrigan, I’m not going,” Cassian said without malice.

“What do you have to do instead?” Mor demanded, and Elain saw Nesta stiffen at Mor’s insistence. “Cmon, it’ll be fun!”

Cassian groaned.

“One drink, you evil sorceress. And if Lauden tries to grab my ass again, I’m leaving.”

Mor clapped with delight.

“What about you, Nesta? Would you like to—“

“I’d rather die,” Nesta said flatly, and Mor only laughed as if she’d made a pleasant joke.

“I figured as much. C’mon, Cass.”

Cass rose with reluctance from his chair, and Elain saw him try to catch Nesta’s eye as he followed Mor. However, she ignored him, brushing past instead without saying a word.”

“Goodnight, you two!” Mor said to Azriel and Elain, brushing an affectionate hand across Azriel’s chest . There was nothing wanton in the gesture, but Elain saw a muscle feather in Azriel’s jaw, as if he was holding himself back from leaning into her touch.

With that, they left.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” Azriel offered when he and Elain were alone, even going so far as to offer her an arm.

Elain accepted the genteel gesture, letting his scent wash over her again. After everything that had happened that evening, she found it soothing. They didn’t speak all the way to her door, but she found herself pausing before she entered.

“Thank you for supporting me,” she said quietly.

He gave a genteel nod, and just as she was about to retreat into her room he spoke again.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a beat, surprising her. “I shouldn’t have gone to that meeting earlier. I did you a grave injustice.”

She was unsure what to say, so she merely looked up at him without speaking. His expression was softer now, no longer assessing her for damage and blessedly devoid of pity. He seemed to just be drinking her in instead, as if he could learn what he might offer her as recompense if only he looked hard enough. 

She found herself rather suddenly struck by just how exquisitely handsome he was. It wasn’t that she hadn’t noticed before, but somehow she couldn’t stop admiring how sharp his cheekbones and jaw were, and how soft and full his lips. She wondered what he was seeing in her face, if he found her even a fraction as beautiful. It was of little consequence, but she found comforting to imagine that a person could know her damage and still see the woman beneath it.

“I think you’re stronger than you know, Elain Archeron,” he said finally, breaking her odd reverie. “It is one of the things I most admire about you.”

She couldn’t help but flush at the comment, and the bare sincerity in his tone.

“Thank you,” she said, and he gave his customary nod.

“Good night,” he said, retreating a step.

“Good night,” she said, slipping into her door and closing it behind her, his eyes on her the whole time.


	3. Part III

** The Tender Jar: An Elriel Experiment **

Elain glanced down at the paper in front of her, biting her lip. It was near midday, and warm sunlight tumbled through the library’s tall windows, bathing the room in soft light.

 

“I don’t know,” she said finally, re-reading the letter she and Azriel had spent that last two hours drafting. Mor, Feyre, Rhys, and Cassian had all offered to help, but Azriel had all but thrown them out of the room, insisting that Rhys and Cassian in particular mind their own business. “It feels—obseqious,” she finished.

 

Azriel leaned on the table opposite her with arms folded across his broad chest, and Elain tried not to notice how it tapered down to his exceedingly trim hips. He pursed his lips at her admission.

 

"If you knew Tamlin a little better, you’d find that—sadly—it isn’t.” 

 

Elain glanced up at Azriel, surprised to see that though his expression remained insouciant, his amber eyes were sparkling.

 

 "You made a joke," she said with some awe, feeling as if she were seeing him for the first time.

 

 His face fell into a soft frown at her utterance, brows creasing in concern. "Should I not have? Forgive me, I—“

 

“No!” she said. “It was funny! It’s just—I’ve never heard you make a joke before.”

 

The worry melted from his features, and he offered her a modest turn of his lips. Even that small gesture managed to light up his face, and she realised that if he were ever to truly smile, it would be beautiful enough to break her heart.

 

“Perhaps because mine are not, as you have just seen, very good,” he said.

 

She flashed him a small grin of her own.

 

“Or maybe it’s simply not worth waiting for Cassian to stop talking long enough for you to make one.”

 

At this, he laughed. Actually laughed, and she was sure she’d never heard a sound more lovely. It was smooth as liquor and came from low in his throat, almost like the purr of a jungle cat.

 

“Seems like perhaps I’m not the only one who’s been hiding a sense of humour,” he observed, and she was surprised to find a blush spilling over her cheeks as he gave another soft, throaty laugh.

 

She looked down, suddenly embarrassed. Where was this coming from? She’d never been like this with Azriel before. He’d always been her friend. No, he was still her friend, she told herself. The last thing she needed, after everything that she’d been through in the last six months, was to isolate the only person who seemed to understand her by forming some silly— 

 

She glanced at the letter again for something to do, and Azriel let her blush go without a comment, though Elain had no doubt he’d seen it.

 

“Then I suppose we’re done,” she said, folding the letter carefully. She stood and offered the paper to him, and as he reached to take it, their fingers brushed.

 

Azriel jerked back at the contact, and Elain felt a new flush stain her skin, this one a fueled by a a sharp and sudden shame.

 

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I—“

 

“No,” he said, expression shuttering as all amusement bled from his face. “Don’t be. I just—I’m sorry, I didn’t expect it.”

 

She glanced down at his hands. They were beautiful despite his scars, his fingers long and elegant, the skin burnished copper under their permanent redness.

 

“Do they hurt?” she blurted, feeling even more ashamed for asking such an impertinent question.

 

“No,” he said softly, folding them behind his back as if to hide them from view. “I’ve had them for a long time.”

 

He must have seen the next question in her eyes even as she fought to keep it down, because he said,“A story for another time, I think.” 

 

“I’m—going to the garden,” she fumbled, trying to reestablish the natural ease that normally radiated between them. “I want to see how the roses are coming along now that it’s getting colder. Would you like to join me?”

 

He cleared his throat, and she blushed again, furious with herself for being so forward.

 

"I have to make sure this note gets into the right hands,” he said, shadows beginning to materialise at his collar, ruffling his night-dark hair.

 

“Of course,” she said, turning away to hide a mounting embarrassment. “Have a safe journey.”

 

He nodded, and she began to scurry away with as much dignity as she could rally. By her estimation, it wasn’t much, and she only barely managed not to hang her head. When she’d nearly reached the doorway he called out to her.

 

“Elain,” he said softly, and she turned, forcing herself to look him in the eye. Ever since last night, she hadn’t been able to set aside how lovely she found his face. “Rhys is throwing a dinner party at the House of Wind this evening.” He paused, as if trying to gauge something unreadable before continuing. “Perhaps you’d allow me to escort you.”

 

She nodded, trying to decide if she’d imagine the sparkling in his eyes at her affirmative gesture.

 

“I’ll see you at sunset, then,” he said, and she only nodded again before all but fleeing to the garden. She wiled most of the afternoon away there, grateful that no one came to sit with her as she worked. They often took to doing that whenever Elain came to the garden alone, and she knew now more than ever it was their way of observing her and trying to gauge her stage in the healing process. She supposed, looking back, that Azriel had likely been doing the same thing, though it had never felt that way. She’d simply liked to imagine that like her, he found groups and constant conversation rather daunting.

 

Thinking of the way he’d recoiled from her touch made her flush again, stomach roiling. Before becoming High Fae, she’d always taken comfort in physical affection, and though she’d shrank away from it after emerging from the cauldron, she realised with a pang that she missed it. She felt sure her sisters would offer it to her if they knew (though Nesta had never been much for hugging), but that was different, had always felt somewhat perfunctory, the duty of a loved one to give comfort. What she really missed was the casual weight of a friend’s hand on her shoulder, or the delicate trace of Graysen’s finger down her cheek or neck.

 

Lucien. Lucien would gladly touch her, she knew, if only she’d let him. She felt her gut twist as she remembered a time several months ago when she’d been awoken by a fervent need trembling down the bond in the middle of the night. In his sleep, Lucien’s unguarded mind had flooded hers with images of him kissing her neck, her breasts, her thighs. She could still remember being rocked back by the bone-deep desire he was so usually careful to hide from her, and it had scared her to death. The separation from Graysen had still been so fresh then, and the idea of anyone besides him touching her was unfathomable.

 

However, she found suddenly that his loss had lessened from a fresh wound to a scar, and though it ached, the possibility of someday being adored was more balm than stinging bite. If she were to love again, why shouldn’t it be Lucien? After all, he—like Azriel—was almost hypnotically lovely, the delicate beauty of his face tempered by his intriguing metal eye. More than that, he was clever and kind, and—despite his polite distance— clearly eager to worship her body and soul. Graysen didn’t want her anymore; why shouldn’t she let Lucien pick up that stack?

 

It was a question she turned and over in her mind all the way through getting ready for dinner, if only because it keep the shadows, both of her past and of the future even she could not yet see, at bay.

 

At sunset she stood on the roof of the townhouse, watching the sun kiss the Sidra as she assured herself she wasn’t waiting for something, for someone.

 

Azriel was her friend, she reminded herself again. She wasn’t so naive that she would let that admiration and camaraderie become something different in her mind. He was her friend, would always be her friend, and she wanted no more from him than that.

 

“Elain,” she heard and turned. "Are you ready?”

 

She was surprised to find Cassian standing behind her, grinning. It was somewhat rare that they were alone together, and despite his swagger, he never seemed to know quite how to behave around her.

 

“Rhys needed Az to go to the Court of Nightmares for something, so he’s going to be late for dinner. I’m his humble replacement.”

 

His grin widened as he extended his arms. It only served to emphasize his staggering frame. She offered him a soft smile in return.

 

“That’s kind of you,” she said. “But wouldn’t you rather go with my sister?”

 

He flushed slightly, rubbing the back of his neck as he gave an almost sheepish laugh.

 

“I—assume Feyre will probably just fly herself up there,” he said, seeming to recover some of his composure.

 

She quirked an eyebrow in amusement, and his grin was rueful this time.

 

“Feyre,” she said with mean. “Right. Well I think perhaps I’ll ask her to take me, if you don’t mind.”

 

“No!” he said too quickly, before forcing what she assumed was supposed to be a breezy laugh. “I mean, of course you’d probably be more comfortable with her.”

 

She tried to tell herself that it was his tenuous relationship with Nesta, not her fragility, that made him so willing to be dismissed, and it worked, because a knot in her chest eased slightly.

 

“I will see you there, then,” she said, leaning up on her tip-toes and brushing a kiss to his cheek in salutation. She could tell he was confused by the gesture, but she was grateful when he didn’t jerk away as Azriel had when she’d touched him.

 

She started back down the stairs to find Feyre just as, lo and behold, Nesta emerged onto the terrace.

 

“Where are you going?” she asked, grey eyes flicking to Cassian. Elain didn’t need to look back at him to tell he was watching Nesta intently as well.

 

“I’m going to go with Feyre and Rhysand. Cassian can take you.”

 

Nesta opened her mouth to blurt a perfunctory retort, but she must have been remembering the same Elain thing was, that Elain already knew her secret, and had no intention of sharing it.

 

“Come on, then, you hulking brute,” she called to Cassian, squeezing Elain’s hand briefly. “Let’s go.”

 

Cassian gave a sultry laugh.

 

“I love when you talk dirty to me, woman.”

 

“Don’t make me push you off the balcony,” came Nesta’s reply, and Elain rolled her eyes good-naturedly as she headed down the stairs. Feyre, she found upon entering the sitting room, had already gone to the House of Wind, but Rhysand was there, and he offered to take her in his mate’s stead. 

 

They flew in companionable silence, though Rhys gave her a warm smile when they landed, commenting, “You look lovely tonight, Elain.”

 

“Thank you,” she replied, and with a genteel bow, he swept off to find Feyre, leaving Elain to go in search of a glass of wine. Usually she tried to avoid it, since her appetite had yet to fully return and even a glass or two went to her head. However, she knew she was facing an evening of endless warnings and demands to know if she was really up to going to the Spring Court, so she indulged herself.

 

“I love that gown, Elain,” Mor said in greeting when they all took their seats.

 

Elain smiled at her. She didn’t know what reason Mor had for not wanting Azriel, but it was easy to see why he wanted her. She was as kind as she was beautiful, and she always found a way to make everyone feel appreciated. Elain had been too broken to feel it’s effects when she’d first arrived, but now it made her feel a little less broken, a little more normal. Besides, of all of them, Mor had been the only one to suggest that Elain should be allowed to see Graysen, and she appreciated the faith in that gesture.

 

As she’d suspected, the dinner was a barrage of questions and unsolicited advice. What to say, how to dress, how to annoy Tamlin the most while remaining polite. She tried to take it all in, but without Azriel to stem the tide, she found herself growing overwhelmed. Thankfully he arrived as they were finishing dessert, and he sank down in the chair next to Elain, awarding her with a soft smile, as if he knew what she’d just endured and sympathized.

 

“What news?” Rhys said as Azriel poured himself a glass of wine.

 

“We’re to be received tomorrow at noon,” he said, glancing at Elain again.  “Though I should warn you, I think Tamlin only accepted because he’s curious about you.”

 

Elain felt herself flushing as Nesta growled from her seat across the table.

 

“I’m going with you,” she said. “I have some very choice thoughts about Tamlin I never got a chance to share.”

 

“We should all go,” Mor said cheerily. “He’d go mad!”

 

“This isn’t a joke,” Elain said in a meek voice. “This is Lucien’s safety we’re talking about. I’m not going to risk it just to settle petty scores.”

 

The amusement slipped off the other’s faces, and Elain swore she felt Azriel tense slightly at Lucien’s name. She ignored it, not wanting to indulge in any more prying speculation where Azriel was concerned.

 

“You’re right,” Feyre said. “ Just please, stay on your guard. The Spring Court is full of nastiness.”

 

Elain fought not to glance at the Shadowsinger. No one dared say it in front of Nesta, but Elain could read between Feyre’s words: stay close to Azriel. 

 

She couldn’t, though. Their arrival together was already bound to start tongues wagging, and even not knowing where she stood with Lucien, she didn’t want for the first thing he heard after months of separation to be that she hadn’t let the Shadowsinger from her side. It wouldn’t be a problem, she reminded herself. Azriel was a master of remaining unseen. He would have little trouble keeping an eye on her from the shadows.

 

“Do you think Tamlin told Lucien Elain’s coming?” Feyre mused, breaking Elain’s reverie. 

 

“Of course he hasn’t, the smarmy bastard,” Cassian said, lip curling. "He may claim to have forgiven Lucien, but I think he’s planning to enjoy making Lucien suffer the same speculation Tamlin did about you and Rhys.”

 

Rhys looked smug at this, but Elain flushed at the comparison. Though it was a fate of at least partially his own making, Tamlin’s fear still hadn’t been entirely unjustified where her sister and the High Lord of Night were concerned. 

 

Swine,” Mor spat, and they said no more of it, fading back into a conversation Elain found herself falling out of rather quickly.

 

She was relieved when the meal ended and they rose, and even more relieved to see Rhys and Feyre take off into the skies, leaving her to fly with Azriel.

 

“Are you ready?” he asked from his place at her elbow, and she fought not to jump. She hadn’t realised he’d been standing so close.

 

She nodded, forcing down a flush as he extended his arms. She carefully eased an arm around his neck as he slid one of his under her knees and the other across her back to her waist. His soothing eucalyptus and balsam fir washed over her,  and she had to remind herself not to press a nose to his chest and breath him in.

 

Her eyes swept closed as he unfurled his great wings and took to the skies, and she could feel his fingers flexing against her soft flesh as they flew. She suddenly wondered, having watched him shrink away from her in the library, if having to touch her like this made him uncomfortable, and if she should have asked Rhys or Cassian to fly her instead. However, by this time they were touching down on the landing of the townhouse’s roof, and she brushed the notion off. It wasn’t as if it was the first time he’d carried her to the House of Wind. She was being ridiculous after what had happened between them that morning.

 

 Stop it, she chastised. They were about to spend several days alone together, and at least some of them with Lucien in tow, depending how long they were forced to stay at the Spring Court.

 

“Are you alright?” Azriel breathed, and Elain realised his hand was still on her shoulder.

 

“Fine,” she said, trying not to be pleased when his hand didn’t drop immediately.

 

“You have nothing to be nervous about, if that’s what’s bothering you,” he said. “I think Tamlin’s going to find you’re a more skilled opponent then he’s anticipating.”

 

She glanced up to find Azriel giving her a soft, reassuring smile, full lips curved into a perfect bow. For a second she wanted to reach out and touch them, suddenly desperate to know if they were as soft as they looked.  Instead, she allowed herself the briefest moment of selfish insanity and brushed a hand down his chest in the same light, affectionate gesture Mor had offered him the previous evening.

 

She felt his sleek pectorals constrict at the contact, like a snake uncoiling from a branch. However, before she pull it away in shame, he gently grasped her hand—the same one he recoiled from less than twelve hours ago—and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he promised, eyes dancing over her face. “Sleep well, Elain.”

 

“And you,” she breathed, heart hammering as he released her hand and took back to the skies, rustling her unbound hair with the whoosh of his wings.


	4. Part IV

Elain bit her lip, staring at herself in the full length mirror as Feyre arranged fresh flowers in her hair.

“It’s—“ she began, studying the voluminous lavender gown and biting her lip. It was covered in silk and soft tulle, white silk flowers crowded around the bodice and falling in a cascade down the skirt and along the trailing hem.

“The Spring Court fashion, I’m afraid,” Feyre finished, sounding sympathetic.

Rhys, who was leaning in the doorway with arms crossed, snorted.

“You look like Feyre on her wedding day,” he said with derision, and Feyre rolled her eyes.

“It’s been two years, Rhys. Let it go.”

Elain glanced back at her reflection, wishing the neckline wasn’t cut so low.

“You don’t think Tamlin will be insulted?” she asked, straining for a reason—any reason—to be allowed to take the gown off.

“Not likely,” Rhys said under his breath, giving another disgusted snort. Feyre whirled on him, mouth set into a firm line.

“Don’t you have something important to be doing, High Lord?”

At this, his posture relaxed, crushed violet eyes glittering as he smirked. Like Cassian, he seemed to enjoy stoking the Archeron fire that burned in both Elain’s sisters.

“Oh, just go away,” Feyre said with less malice, and he blew her a kiss she pretended to throw on the floor.

“I love you, too,” he said, giving Elain a conspiratorial wink before sauntering out of the door.

When he was gone, Feyre’s gently gripped Elain’s shoulders to turn her, her fingers warm on the bare flesh of Elain’s arms.

“I know it’s—excessive,” she said. “But I swear I wouldn’t make you wear it if I didn’t think it was necessary. You only have to keep it on for a few hours, I promise.”

Elain nodded, steeling her courage. She’d once jammed a knife through a man’s throat. She could do this. You could do anything you wished, something inside her whispered, and she realized after a moment it was Azriel’s voice, coming to her from a memory. It was something he’d told her just after the war, when she’d been drowning in sorrow and loss. It had been a lifeboat then, and it was an anchor now; holding her steady, keeping her grounded. She nodded at Feyre, trying not to wonder what Azriel would think when he saw her in her gown, which was all at once too much fabric and not enough.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Feyre said after a pause, her keen grey eyes assessing Elain, raking her courage and her resolve.

You could do anything you wished.

“Yes I do,” Elain said, brushing her sister’s hands away with a gentle motion. “You would do the same for Rhys, and Lucien would do the same for me.”

“I know,” Feyre said, voice soft, as if she were trying to calm a startled fawn. “But Lucien is trained in combat and court intrigue, and you—“

Elain tried to allieviate the shame that had begun to crush her—it’s pressure great enough to make her eyes water—by taking a deep breath.

“I don’t need to hear all the things I’m not,” Elain told Feyre. “I’m well aware of what I lack.”

Feyre’s eyebrows knit in an expression of pain, of regret, and she began to protest.

“Please,” Elain said, hating the pity in her younger sister’s eyes, and hating herself for still being on the brink of tears. “Let me find my courage, as you did.”

“There’s no need to look,” Feyre said, eyes sparkling with a fierce love as she pressed a hand to Elain’s heart. “It’s here already.“

Elain bit her lip at the gesture, and Feyre brushed a tear from Elain’s cheek.

“Just please, be careful. Spring is still full of enemies. And I’m sending Nualla and Cerridwen with you. They can look after you when—“

She broke off, and Elain fought not to flush, understanding the meaning well enough. There was a limit to the amount of contact she’d be permitted with Azriel if they wanted to maintain any semblance of propriety. She thought of the way he’d kissed her hand the night before, trying to forget how warm his lips had been, or how the touch had sent a jolt up her arms that had left her arm tingling until she fell asleep.

“Feyre,” Rhys said, appearing in the doorway again. “Az is back. It’s time.”

Feyre turned, squeezing Elain’s hand a final time. Feyre’s face had melted back into an expression of strain as her eyes scanned Elan, seeking, as always, to find Elain’s damage and drag it into the light so she could study it more closely.

“Please,” Elain said softly, clenching and unclenching her fist behind her gown to try and relieve the anxiety Feyre’s assessing looks always churned up in her gut. “Stop. I’ll be fine.”

Feyre looked ready to say something else—perhaps make a final plea that Elain stay—before offering her a tight-lipped smile instead.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” she said, flashing Rhys a meaningful glance of such piteous concern that Elain felt herself wanting to cry again. She struggled to find courage enough to demand Feyre stop looking at her like she was made of glass so fragile that she was liable to turn back to sand and blow away on the next passing wind. Instead she simply nodded. She grabbed her small bag and used her free hand to navigate the sea of skirts from around her ankles and left the room, Rhys and Feyre’s heated whispers chasing her all the way down the grand spiral staircase .

Azriel stood waiting at the bottom for her, dressed more formally than she’d ever seen him. His jacket was of darkest night, it’s collar so tall that it nearly brushed his sharp jawline. His pants and boots were black as well, and the only vestiges of the warrior she’d come to know were his siphons and Truth-Teller, which was strapped to his thigh. As handsome as she’d always found him in armor, in court attire he was staggering, like a dark prince from the faerie tales her nursemaid used to read her.

He turned at her approach, and the speed with which his eyes snapped to the floor told her enough about how wanton she must have looked.

“I know,” she said as she reached the final stair, silk and tulle rustling with every step. “It’s horrendous.”

“No,” he said, eyes fixed over her right shoulder, shadows wending up his neck like oil-black serpents. “It’s not.“

“Yes it is,” she said, throat tightening as she watched him flexing his scarred hands, the same way she always did. “You can barely look at me.”

At this he laboriously dragged his gaze back to her as if it weighed several thousand pounds. He kept it fixed on her face as he said in a soft voice, “Elain, you look beautiful.”

Elain flushed, running a hand down the peplum ruffle that flared from her waist.

“You don’t think it’s—“

“No,” he repeated, voice pulled low by an emotion Elain couldn’t read in his eyes. “I don’t.”

“You look—” she ventured, fumbling for something appropriate as her eyes flitted over his broad chest. “—very nice as well.”

His wings flexed as he shifted on his feet. He didn’t seem to be any more comfortable with flattery than she was.

“I hate this thing,” he admitted, rolling his shoulders in irritation. “It’s too stiff.”

She gave a soft smile.

“More stiff than battle leathers?”

The comment seemed to put him more at ease, and he offered her a modest smile of his lips in return.

“Infinitely.”

She laughed softly before watching Feyre finally coming down the stairs, Rhys, Cassian, and Nesta in tow. As Elain turned, she thought she felt—or perhaps she only imagined—Azriel’s gaze slipping down the column of her spine, which was bared by the low cut of the gown’s back.

Cassian whistled at seeing her, eyes glinting wickedly.

“You look like a birthday cake!” he said in greeting, and Nesta slapped him across the back of the head.

“Don’t be an ass,” Azriel said from behind her, and Cassian only flipped him an irreverent gesture that earned him another hard slap from Nesta.

“Ouch!” he said, turning to sulk in her direction. “What was the second one for?”

She sniffed.

“The first one didn’t feel like quite enough.”

Cassian only smirked in response.

“Or maybe you just can’t keep your hands off m—damnit, woman, stop hitting me!”

“Knock it off, both of you,” Rhys said lazily. “Now’s not the time.”

“Where’s Morrigan?” Azriel asked, and Elain felt the question strike her between the shoulder blades, punching nearly through to her chest.

“She’s working on something with Amren,” Rhys said. “But they both send their best wishes.”

Cassian scoffed.

“Amren’s never had a well wish in her—“

Nesta slapped him for a fourth time, and he flashed her a heated look that fell somewhere between wanting to snarling at her and ripping off all her clothes. Something about it made Elain’s throat ache, especially when she imagined Azriel looking at Mor with the same hunger.

The torre clock in the political palace began to boom, and Elain felt a trill of panic flicker in her blood. She was relieved that the time at least had been changed, and they were to arrive at sundown and not midday. She wasn’t sure how much of Tamlin’s court she could really stomach.

“It’s time,” Azriel said. “Are you ready, Elain?”

She flexed and unflexed her right hand, suddenly desperate not to go, not to be alone with him, not to have to step into the circle of his arms so he could winnow them to the Spring border.

“What about Nualla and Cerridwen?”

“They’ll be waiting for you when you arrive,” Rhys said. “I prefer they stay—in the shadows as much as possible on this trip.”

Elain felt another tremor rippling her blood.

“You plan to spy on Tamlin?”

Rhys and Feyre exchanged a look before Rhys shrugged.

“There’s no telling the next time we’ll be invited into his court. We have to take opportunities when they arise.“

“Don’t worry about that,” Feyre said, coming to pull Elain into a tight hug. “They’ll be fine.”

After a moment, Nesta gave Cassian a hearty shove to clear her path before wrapping her arms around Elain as well.

“Be safe,” she said, using the gentle tone she’d always reserved for just Elain. However, the silk of it quickly sharpened to steel as her eyes flicked up to Azriel.

“I meant what I said, Shadowsinger. If she comes back with even one eyelash missing, I will kill you.”

“You can try,” Azriel said in response, and though his tone hadn’t changed, Elain could sense the dry humor in it. She wished he wouldn’t do that, wished he wouldn’t say sweet and clever things that made it so much harder for her to not—

The torre clock heralded the hour a second time, and Elain’s sisters released her as Azriel took a step towards her. She fought not to flinch as his cool scent washed over her, wrapping around her as surely as the shadows which had now begun to brush her arms.

Steeling herself and trying to ignore the mild distress on Feyre’s face, she turned to face him.

“I’m rea—“

“She can’t go dressed like that!” Nesta squawked, seeing the expanse of nothing which made of the gown’s back for the first time.

“Nesta,” Rhys groaned in irritation, but the eldest Archeron was already stomping up the stairs.

She emerged an impressively short time later bearing a sleeveless cloak in a pearlescent white satin. It’s train was nearly as long as the gown’s, and they did seem to suit one another.

“At least wear this,” Nesta demanded, and Elain accepted the coat, if only to avoid the exquisite agony of Azriel’s hands on her bare skin.

“Oh stop fussing and let them go already,” Cassian said, and he answered Nesta’s foul hand gesture by blowing her a kiss.

“He’s right,” Azriel said. “We’re late already.”

Elain couldn’t help it; she tensed as his fingers brushed her elbow, and she couldn’t decide if she imagined the hurt that flashed in his eyes as she acquiesced to his silent directive and turned to face him.

“Don’t linger, Az,” Rhys said. “Tamlin’s hospitality isn’t liable to last.”

“And kick him in the balls for us, Elain,” Cassian chirped in a bright voice.

Elain was hardly listening, because Azriel was looping an arm around her waist now, his fingers finding purchase in the satin of the cloak as he gently tugged her closer. In the next second they were nothing but shadow and wind, and the second after that they were arriving on a manicured stretch of gravel that led to a manor sick with splendor. Elain flexed and unflexed her hands as she imagined her little sister locked in this very house, screaming to be let out. This wasn’t a palace, she thought with a sickening dread; it was a prison, and if Rhys hadn’t cared for Feyre as much as he did, it would have been a tomb, too.

She fought to set the panic of the thought aside while also wishing Azriel wasn’t standing so close to her. Cauldron, she was a mess. Azriel was the last thing she ought to be—

"Have I upset you?”

She turned to glance at him, ignoring another pang at seeing the soft hurt shadowing his clear eyes.

"Why would you ask me that?”

He frowned softly.

“Earlier, when I touched your arm—”

I’m just nervous,” she said, and it wasn’t a lie by any measure. “And this place makes me sick.”

“You can do this,” he said in reply.

You could do anything you wished.

She rolled back her shoulders and squeezed her fists several more times to steel her nerves.

“I’m ready.”

Azriel paused only momentarily, and Elain wondered if he’d considered offering her his arm the same way she’d considered reaching for it. However, in the end he only ushered her up the hedge-lined walkway, hands behind his back.

There were two sentries standing at attention in front of the gilt doors, and they stepped forward to bar the way as Elain and Azriel approached.

“My name is Elain Archeron,” Elain said, wishing she could master the commanding tone Feyre used when she was acting as High Lady, or the imperious one Nesta used for just about everything. “We’re here at the High Lord’s invitation.”

“I know who you are,” one said, giving her a small sneer before glancing at Azriel. “And no one goes before the High Lord wearing steel. Give us that knife, Illyrian.”

Azriel’s hand fell to Truth-teller’s gilded hilt, but he made no move to hand it over.

“No one touches this blade but me,” he said, his voice a deathly promise.

“As if I give a shit,” the sentry sniped. “Hand it—“

“Please,” Elain, interceded, pressing a hand to the male’s arm and flashing him the kind of smile Mor would have given, one that was blinding and full of alluring promises. “We are the High Lord’s guests and come in good faith.”

The male looked down at her hand on his arm before trading a look with his companion. After a tense volley of eye contact the latter nodded, and they stepped back to tug the doors open.

“Lesser filth,” the first one spat in a whisper as Azriel passed him, and Elain tried not to flinch, knowing it was not likely to be the last or even the most grievous insult they would face on this visit.

There were two more sentries waiting inside the lavish foyer, and Elain grabbed for Azriel’s hand, hating herself for how much she needed his strength; hers was quickly bleeding away.

After another agonizing minute they stood in front of yet another set of doors, these ones were just as large but twice as ornate. Azriel squeezed her hand as they groaned open before letting it drop.

Elain took a breath that was far less steady than she would have liked before sweeping in to what she could see now was a throne room. It was scattered with high fae who watched her with varying degrees of interest and disgust as she forced herself deeper into the room’s fat belly. At the far end was a grand dais, and atop it, perched in a gilt throne, sat the High Lord of Spring.

He was, Elain supposed, a handsome male, but to Elain he would always be the hideous, snarling beast who’d ripped down the door of their cottage and stolen her younger sister away.

“Behold,” he said in mild greeting, green eyes luminous as he leaned forward. “The famed third sister. Welcome to my court, Elain Archeron. And I see you’re brought the requisite Illyrian brute. How very—” he paused, giving her a pleasant smile that didn’t quite manage to meet his eyes. “expected.”

A soft titter went through the crowd, and Elain had to force herself not to reach for Azriel’s hand again.

“Thank you for having me, my lord,” she said, giving a small dip that send a ripple through the gown.

“Lucien has always said that you were the most beautiful of your sisters,” Tamlin continued baldly, studying her face for a reaction. Or possibly he was searching for Feyre’s face in her own features. “I think perhaps I am inclined to agree.”

Elain’s cheeks heated, and beside her Azriel tensed like a drawn bow, ready to loose and strike true.

“Thank you,” she choked out, hating herself for not defending Feyre and Nesta, and him for making it impossible for her to do so without insulting him. “That is—very kind, though not true, I’m sure.”

Tamlin settled back in his throne, drumming his fingers on the arm in a gesture she assumed was meant to convey polite boredom. In reality, she could see the frustration and loss roiling in his eyes. As much as she hated him for what he’d forced Feyre to endure, and the role he’d played in her own misfortunes, some part of her still pitied him.

“How are your sisters?”

“They are—“ Elain paused, desperately trying to find her footing. If things kept on this way, she was liable to burst into tears. “Very busy. Peace, as you know, my Lord, requires a firm and dedicated hand.”

Tamlin flashed a blithe smile edged in bitterness.

“Indeed. Tell me, is Nesta still tumbling that bastard-born lesser fae? You may tell her that after her last visit to my court as emissary, I had more than one courtier inquiring after her hand in marriage. She’s quite the temptress, your sister. I suppose it runs in the family.”

The barb stung badly enough to make Elain’s mouth water, but it also lit a small fire in her chest.

“You may tell them that if they value their limbs,” she said, rallying her courage. “They would be wise to rescind any such offers. Nesta is no more interested in the Lord Commander than she is in any other male.”

Tamlin laughed, and it was a cold and brittle sound .

“As you say. And I'm not sure it matters regardless. After this visit, I’m sure that it’s your hand they’ll be seeking instead.”

Elain clenched her fist, tight enough that Graysen’s ring dug into her palm. She had thought not to wear it, but when she’d tried to take it off that morning, she’d been overcome by such a blind panic that she had immediately slipped it back on.

“Though, I don’t suppose Lucien would thank me for entertaining such solicitations.”

Tamlin’s eyes sparkled as he leaned forward again, drinking in her discomfort. He was making a very deliberate exercise of shredding her pride, and he seemed pleased at having gotten the upper-hand so quickly. Elain wished so badly her sisters were with her; either one of them could have cut him to ribbons by now.

“Where is Lucien?” she asked, glancing around. “I had hoped to speak with him.”

“He will be thrilled to find you’ve gone to such lengths, I’m sure. Unfortunately, you’ll have to wait. He’s on a hunt and won’t be back until tomorrow.”

So Cassian had been right; Tamlin hadn’t told Lucien she was coming, and now he planned to force their reunion into the public eye. She clenched her fist again, willing herself not to break down. She could do this.

You could do anything you wished.

“Thank—“ she began, but Tamlin cut her off, eyes flicking to Azriel for the first time.

“I hope all is well,” he said, eying Truth-teller and its bearer with naked emnity. “It is a long journey from the North.”

“It’s nothing that need worry you,” she said vaguely, hoping he couldn’t read the fear that she knew was beginning to show in her eyes.

“Of course,” he said. “I would not want to interfere in business between mates. Or perhaps your news for him is of a more…joyous nature?”

Beside her, Azriel was still as death, but she could feel the rage in his tense posture. Maybe it was good Nesta wasn’t there; if she had been, Tamlin would likely be bleeding out on the marble floor by now.

“You’ll forgive me, my lord, if I choose not to discuss the details of my private life in front of your entire court.”

“I apologize,” he said, not sounding the slightest bit remorseful. “As a lady of Night, you’re not one of my—“

The words were tumbling out of Elain’s mouth before she could stop them, fueled by a slow-simmering rage that had been inching towards a boil since they moment they arrived.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, my lord,” she bit out, cutting him off. I am a lady of nothing. It was a title I may have borne once, but I think you are the last person I need to remind that the opportunity was forfeit when I became high fae.“

Tamlin didn’t reply immediately, and beneath the fetid resentment and pain in is eyes, she could see something akin to sympathy.

“Yes, Lucien told me about your mortal fiancée. I’m sorry for his inconstancy.”

Elain’s eyes burned. She felt ashamed that even this broken and bitter male pitied her, and humiliated that he’d aired her pain to a room full of strangers. She could feel it—all of it—tugging at her ragged seams, threatening to pull her completely undone.

“Though,” Tamlin continued, his eyes flitting over to Azriel and going cold again as he no doubt saw Rhys in the Shadowsinger’s face the way he’d seen Feyre in Elain’s. “Perhaps you will permit me to point out that its a title you may yet bear. Something tells me that you are as lovely in crimson as you are in lilac. Lovelier, even.”

This comment was met with a ripple of cool laughter, and Elain was suddenly in another throne room, listening to the soldiers jeer at the fact her breasts were visible through her soaking wet nightgown. She could feel Azriel itching for Truth-teller, but knowing where violence would likely get them, she said, “I wouldn’t have thought you a male who cared for such things.”

Tamlin only laughed again.

“I’m not,” he agreed. “But Lucien certainly is. He is a male with...excellent taste.”

He gave her face and gown a meaningful leer, and the gesture was met with even more laughter. Elain knew that if she didn’t get away from this place in the next minute, she was going to end up falling to a heap on the floor.

“Indeed,” she all but spat, not sure if the trembling in her hands was rage or devastation. “Perhaps that’s why he’s taking to wearing black instead of green.”

She could see the retort, cold and cruel, forming in Tamlin's eyes, so she pressed her advantage and continued, “Thank you again for your hospitality, my lord. However, I’m fatigued from a long journey. Perhaps you would allow me to retire and lay down for awhile.”

“Of course,” he said, rising and extending a hand to her.

She approached the dais on legs that wobbled like a newborn fawn’s, but she forced herself not to give in to the tears clawing up her throat as she slipped her trembling hand into his. It took everything in her not to flinch when his cool lips touched her skin, and even more than everything not to wrench away when he once again straightened.

When she felt her vision beginning to blur, she made a hasty bow.

“Rest well,” he said, gorging on her misery as she turned to go. “And Elain? Please, take your pet bat with you; he looks miserable.”

Elain didn’t reply or acknowledge the snickers this jibe elicited, simply kept walking, counting every millimeter until she was out the door and in the hall. Her knees gave way even before the sounds from the room had faded, and she careened sideways, leaning on the wall for support as she pressed a hand to her chest and took a shuddering breath.

“Not here,” Azriel breathed in her ear, grabbing her gently by the elbow and guiding her to the stairs. She had no idea how he seemed to know where he was going, but a minute later he was ushering her into a lavish bedroom and closing the door behind them. She collapsed the minute it nicked shut, sobbing into her palms and feeling more pathetic than she had since the night she’d been abducted from her bedroom and stuffed into that godsdamned cauldron.

She felt more than heard Azriel as he sank down until they were knee-to-knee.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wishing she could stop crying but knowing she wouldn’t be able to until her eyes ran dry. “You must think I’m so pathetic.”

She felt the rough slide of his fingers as he gripped her wrists and tugged her hands from her face.

“Never,” he breathed, eyes glittering as he studied her. Even through her misery, she felt something flutter at the light shining in them. “Elain, you were—you did perfectly. Your sisters would be proud of you.”

“No,” she said, half sick and half thrilled that he’d yet to release her. “If Nesta were here—“

“If Nesta were here,” he said. “She would have exploded, and ruined our tenuous peace with spring. What you did was the much more difficult thing.”

“I let him say horrible things about my sisters,” she said. “I should have said more.”

“Neither of them would want to see your tormented on their behalf.” At this he did let go of her wrists, but before she could despair in the loss of him, he brought a thumb up to brush one of her tears away. “And don’t worry; you landed several well-placed blows. Cerridwen tells me they are already calling you the princess of thorns. Lovely as a rose but sharp enough to draw blood.”

At this she gave an unexpected laugh, and he dropped his hands, seeing that he’d done his job in comforting her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, taking a steadying breath.

He considered this, and her, eyes skating across her face before falling to her hands and watching her twist the iron ring around and around.

“He’s wrong about you,” he said. “You’re no one’s prize. You belong to yourself and no one else.”

Elain throat ache as his earnest gaze swept over her.

“Thank you,” she repeated, and her eyes slipped closed as he leaned in to touch her face again. However, after a second he withdrew his hand instead, sending tears of humiliating disappointment racing down her cheeks.

“I’ll make your regrets for dinner,” he said, standing and offering her a hand up. "Get some rest, and I will have Nualla and Cerridwen bring up a tray for you when you’re hungry.”

She nodded, too embarrassed to ask him where he was going, or to beg him to dine with her when he returned. In that moment she could see herself reflected so clearly in his eyes: a frightened child in need a reassurance. That was all it had been: him fulfilling his promise to the High Lord and Lady to guard their fragile flower, to keep her petals from getting bruised. Whatever comfort he offered, it was duty-bound.

“They can also help you out of that gown if—“

“Yes,” she said at once, having forgotten she was wearing it and feeling humiliated all over again to know that he hadn’t forgotten. “Please.”

He offered her a brief smile before nodding.

“If you need something—“ and she mimicked the gesture, not wanting to listen to him coddle her anymore.

“Of course,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, then,” he said, and she nodded again, wishing he would stay even as she watched him go.

Elain woke in the middle of the night from a restless nightmare, and she was annoyed to find that her first lucid thought was to wonder whether Azriel was still awake. She hated this house and everything it represented to her family, and she didn’t want to be alone. Standing, she put on a dressing gown and crept to the door. However, she noticed a shadow cross the light from the hall’s face lamp, and she peered through the door to see a sentry standing guard outside of her door.

She bristled.

A guard. Tamlin had put a guard outside her door to keep her from going anywhere in the middle of the night. Or perhaps he’d placed the sentry there hoping she’d try to leave, and he could use it to humiliate her and Lucien further. She warred over it for several minutes, trying to convince herself to lie back down and go to sleep. However, when she thought about her nightmare, in which Tamlin appeared in his beast form and clawed their old cottage to rumble while a child-age Feyre cried, she made up her mind. She would get no more sleep until she had a chance to talk through her nerves.

“Nualla? Cerridwen?”

“my lady?” they chorused in unison, appearing at her elbow and nearly making her scream.

“There’s a sentry posted outside my door. Can you make him—“

They said nothing, only vanished again, and just went Elain was about to give up and talk her chances on another nightmare, they returned.

“You can go,” Nualla said. “He will not see you.”

Elain nodded, thinking for a moment she should explain to the twins why she was sneaking to Azriel’s room in the middle of the night, but one look at them told her they understood. Suddenly she wondered if they too had pain they were trying to hide, and if they recognized in her a kindred spirit.

She slipped through the door without a sound, passing the unsuspecting guard on duty before crossing the hall to the door Nualla had indicated, realizing too late that Azriel might be asleep. However, after a moment the door swung in, and she felt her mouth go dry. 

Azriel was still in his dark pants and boots, but he was bare from the waist up. She tried not to gawk at the expanse of his chest, his frame laid over with sleek, hard muscle and silken copper skin. She’d only ever seen the barest glimpses of his Illyrian marks before, but now she could make out the larger schematic design, and she wished she was an artist like Feyre so she could paint their intricate whorls and runes.

“Elain,” Azriel said, brows knitting together. “What is it? Is everything alright?”

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, still searching for an appropriate place to look. Her traitorous eyes kept snapping back to his stomach and the undulating ribbon of muscle that cut a groove into each his trim hips before disappearing below the waistline of his distractingly fitted trousers. “Were you sleeping?”

“No,” he said, turning to allow her to step beyond him into the low-lit bedroom.

“I’m sorry, “ she repeated. “This place is just awful and I—“ the words dyed on her lips when she saw his wings, which were marred by half a dozen deep scratches. “What happened to your wings?”

Azriel glanced over his shoulder and his wings swished closed, as if to hide the damage from her.

“It’s nothing. I was—on assignment for Rhys yesterday, and they got banged up. I will put salve on them and they will be better by the morning."

“Why didn’t you let Nualla and Cerridwen help with it when you got them yesterday? They look painful.”

“It was—” he cleared throat. “Not necessary. I can manage.”

“But how can you possibly reach them?”

His face didn’t change, but she could see in his expression that he was well aware there was no way he possibly could. She bit her lip.

“Can I—“ she paused, trying again. "I mean, would you like me to do it? I’m here keeping you awake. I’d like to be helpful, if I can.”

“I was already awake,” he pointed out in a soft voice. “And you know that should you need me, you can come regardless of the hour.”

“Then you should know that I will always wish help you if I can,” she countered, not being able to stop fretting at seeing how angry and red the scratches had been.

“No,” he protested quickly. “That's...alright. They barely hurt.” He smiled, but he wasn’t quite able to hide the wince as he tried to tuck them farther behind his back.

“Please,” she said, taking a step towards him and touching his wrist. “Let me help.”

He considered, seeming almost at war with himself. She wondered if it had something to do with how he got his scars, if he didn’t like to be touched. Then again, he'd touched her that afternoon, hadn’t he?

“Please,” she tried a third time, desperate to repay his earlier kindness, to prove she could do more than look pretty and cry. “Azriel, just let me help you.”

He clenched his jaw before handing her the tin of salve and turning slowly—ever so slowly—to allow her access. She assessed the damage, noting the majority of the scratches were higher up.

“Perhaps you should sit,” she mumbled into the wall of muscles that made up his back. “You’re very—“

Wordlessly, he sank onto the divan nearest the fae light, offering her a better view. She unscrewed the tin and was rewarded with the smell of eucalyptus. She wondered how often he required this sort of salve, if he always smelled of the plant himself. The thought made her throat ache.

Dipping three fingers in, she knelt on the divan behind him and touched them gently to the ugliest of the cuts near the outside of his right wing. He stiffened at the contact, and she watched all the muscle in his back shift like the ticking mechanisms inside a clock. Trying to keep her touch light as possible, she rubbed the salve in circular motions they way she’d see a healer do on the battlefield in Hybern. It's effect was nearly instantaneous, and though the wound didn’t disappear entirely, the angry redness was gone. She ran her finger down the spot in wonder, mesmerized by how satiny the taut flesh was. She watched him fight down a shuddering exhale.

“Am I hurting you?” she asked, fixing the next three cuts the same way she had the first. When he didn’t respond, when she glanced down to see his knuckles were white with the effort of clenching his fists, she stilled her movements. “Azriel, am I hurting you?”

“No,” he bit out on a breath, and she thought the pain must have been unbearable if it was causing a battle-hardened soldier like Azriel so much distress.

“I’m almost done,” she promised, moving to the last small gash on the inner curve of his left wing.

When she dragged her finger down the length of the cut, working the salve, he finally let out a low noise of pain. No, not pain, she realized, noting his labored breathing and he flush staining his high cheekbones. It was a noise of restraint, of—

Elain felt her heart stop beating for a breath, then stutter over the new few with renewed urgency. Feyre had never mentioned Illyrian’s wings were—

But then, why would she? It wasn’t exactly dinner conversation. It was no wonder he hadn’t wanted to let the twins touch them, if this was the reaction it produced. She didn’t dare wonder what it meant that he’d let Elain do it.

Nothing, she chided herself. He couldn’t have done it himself, and they’d clearly hurt a great deal. Still, when she remembered the heat of his mouth against her knuckles the night before…

Biting her lip, she reached out and trailed her fingers along the top curve of his right wing in experimentation. This time Azriel let out a soft but unmistakable moan. The sound clanged through her like a bell’s tongue striking its waist, and she a felt a burning begin in every part of her body. In her cheeks, certainly, as she traced down to where the wing joined with his sleek trapezius muscle and he groaned again, a hint of dark, seductive pleading in the noise. But also in her low belly, as desire—long dormant—caught alight. She ran her nails along the same spot and he moaned again, this time in a tone that almost sounded like her name.

All at once, she marveled that he was letting him touch him like this and wondering how far she was willing to let this—whatever it was—go. The thought terrified her, but at the only thing more terrifying than continuing was the prospect of stopping. She ran her fingers down neat column of runes stamped along his spine, and he shuddered, his wings unfurling to give her broader access to their silken expanse.

Elain felt dizzy and euphoric, as if she’d just drank an entire case of sparkling wine. She never been so—in her life. Even with Graysen, who’d been her first and only true lover, she’d never felt so desperate to touch someone, to be touched by them in return. Azriel was the most exquisite of siren’s songs—his body, his skin, his scent—calling to her on a sweet, night-dark wind. 

Without stopping to consider that that siren’s voice could be preparing to run her aground and dash her on the rocks, she bent her head to brush first her lips—then her tongue—along the soft spot where his neck met his shoulder, still trailing her fingertips across the newly revealed underside of the wing and drinking in another of his low, throaty groans.

At this, he did say her name—whispered it like it were his dying prayer—and when she straightened, it was to find him looking at her over his shoulder. Except it was nothing like a reassuring smiles and assessing glances she’d come to expect from him. It was bare and…hungry. His eyes were molten, the exact color of kerosene the second it touched flame and caught alight. He was breathing heavily enough that it brushed her cheek with every exhale, and when his gaze flicked down to her parted lips, she felt herself coming undone.

“Elain,” he groaned again, leaning farther into her sensual assault on his wings as he gently hooked a finger under her chin, drawing her mouth closer to his. The last thing she saw were his shadows curling to brush her cheek in a cool caress before she closed her eyes and—

“My lady.”

Azriel jerked back as if he’d been dealt a physical blow, and in half a second he was up and backing away from her. Elain, Still in a daze, she remained rooted in place as Nualla spoke again from where she’d materialized near the door.

“My lady, a messenger is coming to your room to give you a letter from the Autumn lordling. You need to be there to receive it when he arrives.”

Elain didn’t react, didn’t even have the presence of mind to glance a Nualla as she continued to stare at Azriel. He was facing away from her now, shoulders rolled forward and wings tucked in so tight they were nearly flush to his back. She wanted to go to him, to touch him and know she hadn’t imagined the whole thing, but she could tell from the tension in his stance that her touch was the last thing he wanted at that moment.

“My lady?”

“She’s right,” Azriel said quietly, and his voice rough and strained as he turned to face her. “You should—“ He looked down momentarily before glancing back up, all the warmth gutted from his expression. “Elain, you need to go.”

She hazarded a step in his direction, and he countered it with two in the opposite direction.

“Now,” he breathed turning to brace his hands on the desk, head hanging low. “Please.”

Elain strained for something say to smooth over her mistake, but Nualla was already taking her by the elbow, leading Elain back past the oblivious sentry and into her own room before swiftly closing the door behind.

The gravity of it slammed into Elain a moment later, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, feeling sick at the cold kiss of the iron band against her lips. As she felt herself beginning to fracture, she heard voices, and a moment later there was a knock at the door.

Not caring to try and uphold the pretense she’d been sleeping, she flung the door open.

“What is it?” she croaked, and the liveried messenger extended a folded piece of paper to her.

“For you.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled, closing the door in male’s face as she unfolded the letter.

Elain, it read.

Forgive me that I wasn’t at court when you arrived this afternoon. I only just had word you were in Spring. I will be back to the Manor by mid-morning and we can take a ride; I know where a place to go where we will not be overhead, and you can tell me your urgent news then. Until I get back, stay close to the shadowsinger. There are very few people at court I would trust, especially with someone as precious to me as your safety. Look for me no later than noon.

Yours,

L

Elain read it again and again, each time snagging on the same line.

Stay close to the shadow singer.

Finally, she crumple the note in a fist and—pathetic, selfish coward that she was—bowed her head and cried.


	5. Part V

Tender Jar: Part V

Elain woke groggy the next day, having crawled out of yet another nightmare. But this time, Azriel had taken Tamlin's place. They'd been in his room, sitting on the same devan they had evening, and as Azriel leaned down to kiss her, she'd felt Truth-teller's cold blade punch through her chest.

She'd sat up in bed, heart pounding and nightgown soaked in sweat, to find Nuala and Cerridwen standing at the foot of it, watching her. Instinctively she tugged the sheet up to her chest, wishing they— and Nuala in particular—would stop staring. She was still smarting from Azriel's dismissal the previous evening, and their assessing looks were rubbing the wound raw.

"What is it?" she said, and they turned to exchange a look instead.

"The High Lord of Spring has requested your presence at breakfast this morning. It's time to get up and dressed, my lady."

Elain bit her lip.

"Has Lucien arrived yet?"

Another unspoken glance between the wraiths.

"Not yet, my lady."

"And—" Elain paused, feeling heat flood her cheeks as she tried not to catch Nuala's eye.

"He is attending to some business for the High Lord," Nuala said. "He will meet you for breakfast at ten bells."

Spying, Elain wondered in glum humiliation, or avoiding her after she'd wantonly touched his wings and almost—

"Very well," she said, rising to her feet and stretching.

Cerridwen crossed to put a cool hand to Elain's sweat-soaked back as Nuala disappeared into the bathing room. A minute later Elain was being ushered into the bath. She tensed at the smell of eucalyptus mixed with lavender which wafted from the steaming water, but Nuala merely said, "for your nerves, my lady."

Not wanting to admit the scent—his scent—was making her even more fitful than ever, Elain simply tried to breathe through her mouth as she eased into the water.

It was no use. The smell was everywhere, sinking into her bare skin and coaxing out memories she'd hoped to leave in Azriel's darkened bedroom.

She could still feel the taut silk of his wings under her fingers, his skin nearly as soft. She tried to push the thought down, but something tightened in her belly as she recalled the dark want in his tone as he'd pleaded her name. She couldn't help but wonder what might have happened if Nuala hadn't interrupted them. Would she have woken up in Azriel's room instead of her own, or had Azriel's dismissal been an inevitably she only could have avoided by not pushing him as she had?

He was—above all else—an honorable male, and perhaps that was what stayed his hand. Or perhaps she'd taken unfair advantage by touching him so intimately, and his rebuke had been nothing more than him reclaiming what she'd been unrightfully coaxing out of him.

She felt a deep shame welling at the thought. She'd been so selfishly focused on what she'd wanted that she'd never stop to consider what it had been like for him. After all, she was not the female he wanted, had longed for for almost half a millennia. She'd been foolish to think otherwise, even for a few minutes.

On the other hand, he didn't have to have let her touch his wings, and he'd seemed happy enough to let her—

She shook her head. She couldn't think that way, especially knowing that Lucien was arriving today, and that most likely, she'd be facing Graysen in several days as well. Still, she found herself desperate to speak to Azriel, to have him reassure her, despite everything that he didn't regret what little they'd done.

"My lady?" Cerridwen prompted, standing with an enormous towel outstretched.

Elain nodded and got out, allowing Cerridwen to push a comb through her burnished honey hair. When she emerged back into the bedroom, it was to find the bed made and another gown lying atop it. Elain groaned.

"Will I never be allowed to wear something normal?" she asked.

"This one is new, my lady," Nuala explained, helping Elain into embarrassingly wanton underthings before pulling the blush-colored silk slip over Elain's head. "A new gown for the Princess of Thorns."

Elain gave a soft huff as Cerridwen slipped a satin and whale bone corset around Elain's slender waist, tying the silk bows which held the latticework of stiff ribbons in place.

"Are people really calling me that?" Elain asked, feeling embarrassed. It was not a bad title, as far as they went, but she felt unworthy of it. It would have suited Nesta's fierce beauty much better.

"Of course, my lady," Cerridwen said. "The court is quite taken with you."

"I doubt the High Lord shares their enthusiasm," she muttered as together the twins eased the top layer of the dress over her head. It was made of soft tulle of the palest pink, and it was sheer enough that the stylized corset and the slip were both very visible beneath. Her embarrassing underthings likely would have been as well, if not for the cluster of dark roses covering the bodice and cascading down the skirts. It was, at least, less voluminous than the gown from the day before, though it was no less provocative. In fact, the dark roses—an obvious acknowledgent of her new moniker—made it even more so.

Nuala and Cerridwen had wanted to braid flowers through Elain's hair again, but she refused, convincing Cerridwen to do a simple braid over a shoulder instead. Even twisted in the complicated plait, which Elain thought slightly resembled a fish's tail, it fell nearly to her waist. She ought to cut it, she mused. It would be burdensome come spring when she was in the garden.

When she was dressed, the twins gave a small bow and disappeared into dark nothing, and Elain had to suppress another shriek. She wasn't sure she'd ever get used to them doing that. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she found it was five minutes to ten, and she took a breath, edging into the hall before standing before Azriel's door.

She simply didn't want to go to breakfast alone, she assured herself, and it wasn't a lie by any stretch. If she could have her way, she wouldn't see Tamlin or the rest of his court ever again. As it was, they were guests in the territory, and per Fae customs, that put them at the mercy of their host's hospitality.

Taking a deep breath, she raised her hand and knocked. When there was no reply, she bit her lip, torn between embarrassing herself by knocking again and braving Tamlin's jeers alone until Azriel deigned to join her. After a minute she settled for a third option and tried the door. To her surprise, it was open, and she swept in.

Azriel was facing away from her, and she watched, rooted to the far wall, as the shadows blossomed and danced near his ear. He whirled, casually pulling the dark tunic he'd been holding in his scarred hands up so the majority of his chest was covered. It was too late; Elain had already gotten her eyeful of his quivering stomach muscles and tensing laterals, and her face burned.

"I'm sorry," she fumbled as he drew the shirt over his head and ran a hand through his inky hair. It was still wet from his bath, and while it was usually falling into his face, the motion pushed it off his brow. Elain fought to stifle a girlish breath. With his face bared, the lines of his cheekbones and jaw stood out even more, as did his flashing eyes and full lips. She tried not to remember how close she'd come to feeling them pillowed against her own last night.

"I'm sorry," she fumbled. "I just—we're due at breakfast, and I didn't really want to go alone."

He nodded, shrugging into the black jerkin the Ilyrians wore when they weren't going to battle and deftly pulling the straps into place. He forewent the metal pauldrons he usually wore, though she noted that Truth-teller was, as always, strapped to his thigh. She tried not to admire the lithe swell of his quadreceps or the way the knife's strap looped just below where his leg met his hip, fastening distractingly close to his—

"No velvet today?" she teased, trying to find the ease that had always radiated between them.

He snorted in amused appreciation, though she noted that he seemed to be trying to avoid looking at her straight-on.

"I promised Rhys I'd wear it yesterday. I never said anything about today."

"Right," she said, forcing a soft laugh. They lapsed back into a buzzing, jagged silence that was almost physically painful.

"Azriel," she began. "About last night—"

"Don't," he said quickly, and she could see every muscle in his body had gone rigid. "Please."

"But—"

"Please," he repeated, striding past her and to the door. He held it open for her without saying a word, his gaze trained on the ornate rug beneath his feet as she slipped out. He closed the door and started down the hall, and she had to pull up the skirts of her absurd gown to keep up with him.

"I didn't mean to upset you—"

"I'm not upset," he said, and indeed, if she didn't know him she'd have said he seemed completely at ease. But she did know him, and she could see tension in the muscle flickering in his jaw and in his loosely-balled fists. More than any of that, his shadows—which usually only danced around his shoulders in lazy arcs—were roiling like an up-ended hive.

"You certainly seem upset," she pointed out, growing a little agitated even through her enduring embarrassment. She grabbed his forearm, trying to stop him. "At least look at me."

He did so for only the briefest moment before glancing down and away again, shadows twining around his neck, no doubt whispering in his ear.

"I don't know what you want from me," he said softly, and she bit her lip.

"I want you to look at me,  _actually_  look at me, and tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking," he began, pausing to swallow as he clenched and unclenched his left hand. "I'm thinking that it's past ten bells, and we're late."

With that he started off again, and she had to practically chase him to follow, skirts hiked to her knees.

"You said if I needed something I could come to you," she said, hating herself to her very bones when her voice choked off in a soft sob.

"You can," he said, turning and looking at her properly for the first time all morning. "Of course you can."

"Well I need you now," she said. "Please, Azriel, don't shut me out."

"I—" he began, eyes tracing the planes of her face. Gods, why did he have to be so beautiful? He turned away, starting down the main staircase now. "I can't discuss this with you right now."

"Then when?" she said, sweeping into his path so he was forced to halt. "Because last night—"

"Elain," he grit out, eyes screwed shut. "I'm begging you. Let it go. It—it was nothing."

Elain felt like she was back in her nightmare, Truth-teller driving hilt-deep into her chest.

"Nothing," she breathed, swiping at her tears in humiliated frustration. "Right."

He opened his mouth to say something, but after a moment he let it fall shut instead, and she shook her head before pushing into the dining room.

Tamlin was seated at the head of an ornate table, it's gilt legs fashioned to resemble the taloned feet of a beast Elain couldn't place. At her arrival he stood in a genteel fashion, the seven or so male courtiers at the table standing with him. As she gave a soft bow, Elain noted with a cringe that the only open seat was the one to the High Lord's left.

"Elain," he said. "How lovely of you to finally join us."

Elain forced herself to allow him to kiss her hand as Azriel retreated to stand against the wall, still not looking at her. Tamlin glanced up at him, lip curling.

"Do Illyrians not eat, Shadowsinger?" Azriel didn't reply, and Tamlin's sneer deepened. "Or perhaps you've already gorged yourself on the secrets of my court and are no longer hungry."

Azriel's expression was unreadable as he continued to remain silent. At this, Tamlin's eyes flicked back to Elain.

"I'm surprised Rhysand didn't send his Lord Commander to protect you," he mused, studying her face before flashing a bitter smile. "Or is he too busy rutting your sister to bother seeing to your safety?"

Elain clenched the spoon in her hand so tightly she felt the silver bending as several of the males at the table chuckled. She often forgot how much different her face body was from her mortal one.

"I must beg, my lord, that for your own sake you persist in fueling the rumors of any sort of intimacy between Nesta and the Lord Commander. I can assure there is none, and if my sister were to hear of it, she would tear this court to shreds."

He raised a brow.

"A threat?"

Elain fought to keep her tone neutral.

"A fact, I'm afraid. I love my sister, but she can be a rather—temperamental creature when provoked."

Tamlin pursed his lips in dry amusement.

"I'm sure the King of Hybern might agree. At least, his severed head would."

Elain couldn't fend off a wince as she remembered what it had been like to drive Truth-teller into the king's neck, the tissue and bone yielding easily as hot blood poured over her hands. She glanced up at Azriel to find him studying her. He'd furnished her with the blade, and though Elain knew that everyone else had interpreted it as a gesture meant to calm her nerves, she liked to believe he'd known that she could use it to make a difference.  _I've never seen Azriel let anyone else touch that knife_ , Rhys had told her after the war.  _But then, you seem to have an extraordinary effect on people, Elain Archeron._

She tried not to dwell on the words, not to wonder what it meant that Azriel had

let her touch Truth-teller, touch his wings…

The meal progressed, and Elain permitted herself to slip into a polite stupor as the conversation continued to eddy around her, though she noticed that even as the courtiers discussed the coming holiday of Nynsar and the continued rebuilding of the territory's Eastern ports, they glanced at Azriel often, and took care to keep the details vague.

It didn't matter, she thought dryly. She knew that despite his relaxed, almost bored, posture, the spymaster was taking in ever detail, and that his shadows would fill in any noticeable gaps in the information.

She silently rejoiced as she noted the meal coming to an end, though the feeling dissipated when she realized Tamlin was watching her again.

"You ought to eat something more," he commented. "I would hate to see you waste away like your sister did in her last months here."

Elain felt the colour drain from her face as she scrambled for a rebuttal, something—anything—to keep him from continuing. In the end she found her throat nearly swelled shut, and Tamlin did continue.

"She blamed me, of course, but I can't help feeling as if perhaps she was coaxed into starving herself. After all, when unchecked there are very few limits to a daemati's power."

Elain could feel herself on the edge of tears, and from his place against the wall Azriel snarled, "that's enough."

His voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper, but his siphons had begun to pulse. Elain could see the guards tensing, all of them watching Azriel's left hand as it flexed near Truth-teller's hilt. Not that he'd need it, Elain thought. His Illyrian power would be more than enough to kill them with a stroke.

Beside her, Tamlin unsheathed his own deadly claws, and she tensed at how close they were to her right hand.

"You would threaten me in my own court?" he demanded.

He was spoiling for a fight, Elain could see. He'd picked it on purpose to force a reaction from Azriel.

"I would remind you," Azriel corrected, voice smoother and more lethal than a jungle cat's purr. "Not to speak ill of my High Lord and brother in my presence."

Elain was ashamed at her own paralyzing fear, unsure if she ought to try and placate Tamlin or leap between him and Azriel to keep them apart. However, just as the simmering tension reached a boil, the doors of the dining hall burst open. Elain let out a shuddering sigh of relief as Lucien breezed into the room, an indolent smirk on his face.

"Forgive me," he said in a dry voice, glancing at Azriel before giving his friend an easy smile. "Am I interrupting something?"

At this, his gaze slid to Elain and softened as she rose to her feet.

"Lucien," she breathed, torn between joy and dread at seeing him. She could feel some primal part of her straining for him, and echoes of the same drifting down the bond from his end. Beyond it though, a warmth blossomed at seeing a male who, despite everything between them, was her friend.

"Hello, my little _elanedd,_ " he murmured, using an old Fae endearment which meant fawn.

She could feel both Azriel and Tamlin's eyes as he opened his arms to her, and she crossed to him without hesitation.

"I already have horses saddled," he breathed in her ear as she wrapped her arms around his neck and he lifted her off the floor. "Get changed and we can go."

She nodded as he eased her back down, and she watched his gaze skate over her shoulder and linger, his high-arched brows narrowing slightly as his wide, well-curved lips formed a faint sneer. She felt his remaining hand at her waist tighten, and she didn't need to wonder what—who—he was looking at.

"How was the hunt?" Tamlin asked, eyes glittering with something Elain couldn't place as she slid the rest of the way out of Lucien's embrace.

"Very satisfying," Lucien said, tone light. "You should have come with us, Tam."

"I'm afraid I had duties here," Tamlin said, gesturing to Elain.

Lucien's right eye whirred softly, but his expression didn't change.

"Of course," he said. "Next time, then. Shall we?"

He offered his arm to Elain, and taking care not to look at either Tamlin or Azriel, she accepted the gesture and let Lucien lead her from the room.

She let out a breath as they reached the hall, and Lucien chuckled.

"Long morning?"

She gave a humorless snort.

"Your timing remains flawless," she said in answer."One more minute and there was going to be bloodshed. Are you ready? I just need to change and we can go."

"Why? I think you look—" he began, eying her with amusement. She cut him off with a grimace.

"Say nothing about the dress," she warned, and he smirked and pretended to lock his lips.

"I wouldn't dare, elanedd. Meet you in the foyer in ten minutes?"

She nodded, and he gave her a soft, almost bashful smile.

"It's good to see you, Elain," he murmured, and though she could tell he was yearning to do more, he settled for smoothing the tail of her long braid between thumb and forefinger.

"And you," she said honestly, even as she fought not to flick the offending plait off her shoulder and out of his reach.

"See you in ten minutes," he said, seeming to force himself to step away from her.

She nodded, hurrying back up the stairs. She was slipping into her room only a few minutes later, and when she turned from shutting the door, she shrieked in surprise.

Azriel was sitting on the bed, though he rose to his feet almost immediately.

"I'm coming with you," he said, and she was already shaking her head, hating the part of her that was happy to see him.

"Why?" she said in a soft voice. "So you can continue not looking at me as you pick useless fights?"

She knew it was something of a low blow since he'd just been defending Rhys, but she pushed the thought away.

"I told your sisters I'd protect you."

"I don't need protecting," she said. "I'll be with Lucien. Besides, if you're not going to do me the courtesy of being honest about what happened last night, I have nothing to say to you."

She saw a shadow of what almost look like hurt flash across his face, and when her eyes grew glassy, he took an exploratory step in her direction.

"Elain—" he began, but she held out her palm to stop him, forcing the tears back down before they could fall.

"Please," she grit out. "Just go away."

He didn't move, and she gave a whine of frustration, wishing that tears weren't always her first reaction to extreme emotions.

"Just—go spy, or whatever else it is Rhys asked you to do here."

His expression didn't change, but he crossed his arms across his chest.

"I'm not leaving you alone."

"Then I hope you're okay with seeing me naked," she said, wrestling with the back of her gown.

He stiffened, and she let out a bitter laugh that did very little to mitigate the pain and humiliation that swelled in her chest.

"I thought that might get your attention," she croaked, turning away to hide the tears she could no longer fight. "Please Azriel, just get out."

"Elain," he breathed, voice softening into something different, something that felt like the barest echo of the way he'd spoken her name in his room. "I—"

"Please," she grit out. "Haven't you done enough already? Just leave me be."

He dropped his hands to his sides, scarred palms flexing.

"As you wish," he said quietly. "Come find me when you return. The three of us have a lot to discuss."

She waved her hand in a gesture of vague dismissal, and instead of going through the door, he vanished into shadow and mist. She let out a pained snarl of frustration before Nuala and Cerridwen appeared, one at each elbow.

"Mother's tits!" she swore, Cassian's favorite epithet falling from her lips before she could stop it. "Will you please stop doing that?'

"Forgive us, my lady," they chorused in unison, and Elain sighed, feeling guilty.

It wasn't their fault Azriel didn't want her. Wasn't even his, if she was being honest with herself. Just because she—it didn't mean he was obligated to reciprocate those feelings. Quite the opposite, in fact. And hadn't he given Mor the same distance when she'd tacitly asked for it? Annoyed as she was at him, Elain owed him the same courtesy.

"I'm sorry," she said to the twins. "You just scared me, is all."

"No apology necessary," Nuala said in her husky voice, touching Elain's back and ushering her over to where Cerridwen was producing a pair of soft suede pants, a loose tunic, and tall riding boots. Even though Elain wasn't usually one of pants, she felt a surge of relief.

The twins worked in efficient tandem, and in a matter of minutes they had Elain redressed. She nodded to them in thanks before wending her way back to the manor's palatial foyer, where Lucien stood waiting. His hair—she noticed—had been half-tied back, a small braid arcing above each of his delicately-pointed ears before disappearing into the cue at the back. He was tanner than he'd been the last time she'd seen him, and his skin glowed, setting off his russet and golden eye both. His cream riding pants were perfectly tailored to his body, and—she glanced away, trying not to blush.

"Better?" he said, assessing her more casual attire, careful not to let his gaze linger in any one place too long.

"Much," she confirmed. "Shall we?"

He nodded, offering her his arm. She hesitated only a moment before taking it and letting him lead her to the stables. He ushered her inside and stopped at the stall of a doppled grey mare.

"This is Epona," he said, petting the horse's soft nose as she wickered in affection. Indeed, she'd already been saddled and bridled. "She's very gentle."

Elain took a cautious step forward. She was no stranger to horses, but it had been a long time since she'd seen one. She reached out to pet Epona as well, relaxing when her fingers brushed the creature's velvety nose.

"She's lovely," she said, and Lucien smiled, unbolting the door and leading Epona out.

"Just like you," he said, chucking her chin softly as he passed her and strode into a clearing where a restless, snow-white destrier stood, his strong hindquarters flexing in anticipation as Lucien approached.

"Is that yours?" she asked, giving the war horse a wide berth.

Lucien laughed.

"That's Sterope. He was a gift from Tamlin. Don't worry, he's not nearly as fierce as he looks."

"He seems more suited for battle than a pleasure ride," she said, grabbing the pommel and easing into her saddle before Lucien could help her.

"He was bred for war," Lucien admitted. "But he likes open country just as well."

He leapt into his own saddle in one elegant motion, grabbing the reins and steering Sterope towards the meadow which stretched all the way to the horizon.

"Are you ready?" he asked with a wink, and when she nodded, he gave his mount a soft kick, and they shot off.

She followed, finding that Epona seemed to know where she was going and needed very little coaxing from Elain. She watched instead as Sterope's body shifted at Lucien's barest touch, his strong hindquarters giving him dexterity as well as speed.

"Stop showing off," she told Lucien as she urged Epona faster.

Lucien laughed.

"If I had a gold piece for every time your sister's told me that," he said, veering left towards a copse of trees. They passed through the small thicket before emerging into a secluded clearing, dominated almost entirely by a clear pool.

Lucien was back on his feet in an instant, giving Sterope a soft slap on the rump and urging him to drink. Elain swung her leg over Epona's back as well, trying not to look down. It had been easy enough getting up, but she found it suddenly felt like a long way down. Before she could make a fool of herself, Lucien was at her side. His hands found her waist, and she tried to ignore the way his thumbs just barely grazed her hipbones. Though lithe, he was strong, and he lifted her down with little effort.

"Now," he said, retreating a ways and sinking to the silken carpet of grass and stretching out his lean legs. She stood frozen for a moment before he patted a spot a respectable distance away from him, and she considered before sitting down. "Tell me what's so urgent that Rhys couldn't put it into a letter."

She bit her lip.

"I had a vision."

He nodded in contemplation.

"About?"

"You."

She tried to ignore the flash of longing in his face. He mastered it quickly, but not quickly enough to hide it from her.

"And what was I doing in this vision?"

She blushed before steeling her courage and telling him everything. When she was done he considered for a long few minutes, idly running nimble fingers through the grass. Finally, he spoke.

"I don't doubt what you've seen, but I have a hard time believing it. Vassa's not the only person close to me who wields fire, and she's—" he paused. "We've been a great deal together, and she's my friend. I can't imagine her ever doing me harm."

Elain felt a question bubbling up on her tongue, and she spit it out as if it were too hot to swallow.

"Do you love her?" she blurted, and Lucien looked surprised.

He let his eyes fall into the grass before they dragged up to her, the metal one emitting a soft, lulling purr.

"Do you wish I did?" he asked in a quiet voice, and Elain felt her throat dry up.

She thought of how many times in the days after the cauldron she'd wished he wasn't her mate, and of the way her whole being had caught alight when Azriel had whispered her name in the dark.

She opened her mouth to say something—though she didn't know what—and Lucien cut her off with a strained laugh, his gaze cast down again.

"No," he said, still looking away. "Don't answer that."

"Lucien—" she began, but the look he pinned her with as he sat up had her falling silent.

"Is there still a chance for us?" he asked, eyes pleading. He reached out, and when she didn't shrink away, his thumb brushed her cheekbone. Her eyes slipped closed at the contact, and she still didn't pull away, even as she felt his cool breath on her face. His fingers trailed down her cheek, touching her lips with reverence. As he leaned in he whispered, "Don't answer that, either."

Then the space between them vanished, and she felt his mouth as it pressed gently against hers. The kiss was tender, chaste, and it lasted for only a moment before Lucien was pulling away, eyes skating over her shoulder and hardening to glass.

Elain stiffened at hearing a soft rustle, and she scrambled to her feet just as Azriel landed, wings completely outstretched. She'd never seen them fully extended when he wasn't in flight, and end to end they had to be almost twenty feet across, and nearly half as tall from curving base to taloned tip. They were backlit by the afternoon sun, and while they may have appeared black most of the time, in the light they were shot through with pearlescent color, shimmering like the shadowed rainbow in an oil slick.

Next to her, Elain could feel Lucien vibrating with tension, his mating urges snarling at him to spring at Azriel. However, he just rolled his eye disgustedly instead, drawling, "You've made your point, Illyrian."

Elain wasn't sure he meant, but Azriel's wings snapped to his back at Lucien's comment, his face as yet unchanged.

"Make your preparations," he said to them, tone flat. "I want to be back in Velars before the sun sets."

"I can't leave," Lucien said. "Not before Nynsar."

"Nynsar is over two weeks away," Azriel pointed out. "We don't have time for you to drink and revel, Vanserra."

"This isn't about reveling," Lucien said, lips turning down in an artful sneer as his brows arched imperiously. "It's about Tamlin. Things are fragile enough here as it is. If I leave, I'll offend Tam, and we both know that's not something Rhys can afford this soon after the war."

Azriel's jaw clenched, though he made no further objections.

"Fine, stay here then, and I'll go to Vassa's court and fetch the boy."

Elain felt her stomach twisting, but she made no objection to the term. She supposed to fae who'd lived hundreds of years, they did seem like children, though it hadn't kept Lucien from kissing her or Azriel from—

Lucien barked a humorless laugh.

"You will  _never_  get in without my help."

Azriel crossed his arms over his bruising chest, wings rustling in agitation.

"You have no idea what I'm capable of."

At this, Lucien laughed again, and some part of Elain thought she ought to get between them.

"Maybe," he allowed. "But I certainly know what you're not capable of. You were never able to infiltrate the mortal queens' courts, and Vassa's will be no different, whether or not she's there."

Azriel's fists clenched, the siphon atop them glinting in the light.

"And to be honest," Lucien continued. "I don't think either of us is going to have any luck getting him to agree to leave, anyways." Here his eyes flicked to Elain and softened. "He's—not overly fond of me."

"I can convince him," Elain said, though she could scarcely hear the words over the blood pounding in her ears. She couldn't set aside the way Graysen had treated her the last time she'd seen him, but it still wasn't enough to allow him to remain in danger. She fought not to touch the iron ring she still wore, though she saw Lucien and Azriel both eye it warily.

"Absolutely not," Lucien said at once, but Elain ignored him, looking at Azriel instead.

Please, she silently begged him, you had faith in me once. Show me you still do.

She knew her eyes were pleading, but she didn't care. She didn't care about any of it, about what had happened between them the night before or about what he'd said that morning. In that moment, he ceased to be the beautiful male she'd almost kissed. Instead, he was the warrior who'd put Truth-teller in her hands and told her to do what needed to be done. He studied her with the same intensity, and finally he broke their eye contact to glance at Lucien.

"It's not for you to tell her whether she stays or goes, Vanserra," he said. "This is her choice; respect that."

Lucien's lip curled into a sneer.

"Fine," he bit out, not even glancing in Elain's direction. "But if something, anything, happens to her, I will kill you myself."

"You'll have to get in line behind Nesta, I'm afraid," Azriel said, unsmiling. "And I still think we ought to leave sooner."

"Not before Nynsar," Lucien repeated stubbornly, and Azriel's insouciance bowed to breaking as he rolled his eyes.

"Fucking High Fae customs," he murmured, and Lucien rolled his eyes as well.

"Are you telling me that you don't celebrate Nynsar in the Night Court? Just be glad it's not the Rite."

Azriel tensed, siphons flaring, but Elain cut in, "What's the Rite?"

"Don't ask," the males chorused in unison before exchanging another cool glance.

"Fine," Azriel said after a charged silence. "We'll stay, then."

"Don't feel as if you have to," Lucien drawled. "You're more than free to spread your pretty wings and—"

Azriel let out a low, throaty snarl, and Lucien fell silent, still smirking. They continued to stare each other down, and Elain had to roll her eyes now, too. Territorial fae bastards, the both of them. Beside her Lucien seemed to sense her annoyance, because he turned, flashing her a disarming smile.

"Will you ride with me again tomorrow? There are many things I'd still like to show you."

She ignored the possible double meaning as Azriel deadpanned, "No."

"Fuck off, Illyrian," Lucien said in a sing-song voice, still smiling at Elain. "It's not for you to tell her if she stays or goes. It's her choice, remember?"

Azriel folded his arms and turned away in dismissal as Lucien focused his full attention on Elain.

"Will you?" he repeated, and he couldn't quite keep the hopefulness from his tone.

Forcing herself not to glance at Azriel's broad back, Elain returned Lucien's smile, even if it was a bit strained.

"Yes."

At this, his smile widened, and he kissed her hand.

"Let me escort you back, then."

She nodded, ignoring the boom of Azriel's wings as he took back to the skies.

Hours later Elain sat at her dressing table, tugging a brush through her long hair. Dinner had been infinitely more bearable with Lucien there, not only because his rapier wit often cut through any insults, however veiled, that were cast in her way, but also because despite everything his presence seemed to put Tamlin at ease. Under Lucien's influence, Elain saw in the High Lord the male her sister had once loved, and she understood for the first time what Feyre must have seen in him. Though he wasn't clever like Lucien or kind like Azriel, there was something genuine about his roughness, as if he knew he was imperfect and sought to be better.

Still, she was relieved when she bid Lucien goodnight and closed the door to her own room, and she'd allowed Nuala and Cerridwen to help her out of yet another over-the-top gown before dismissing them as well. She hummed softly to herself as she worked, an old lullaby that her nursemaid had sang to her and her sisters when they'd fussed. When she was done, she set the brush down, and just as she was settling into bed there was a knock at the door.

A spike of panic shot through her. Surely Lucien wouldn't be so bold as to—

She rose on unsteady legs, crossing to the door and whispering, "Lucien?"

There was no immediate reply, but when she heard a distinct rustling something far sharper than panic trilled in her blood.

"It's Azriel," he called finally. "May I come in?"

She hated herself for the way even his voice made her heart race. Her hand went to the handle without thinking before she remembered the last time they been alone together in a bedroom, and she jerked back as if the metal had burned her.

"No," she said archly, trying to imitate Nesta's usual tone. "Go away."

There was no reply, and she felt relieved—or perhaps disappointed—when she realized he must have gone. However, after another moment he murmured, "Please. I don't wish to make my apologies through the door."

This shattered Elain's frail resolve, and she wrenched the door open, giving him what she hoped was a withering look.

His expression didn't change at seeing it, but she could tell by the soft glimmer in his eyes that her expression had amused him. Annoyed and embarrassed at being laughed at, she made to close the door in his face. However, he seemed to have anticipated the move, because he placed a palm on the door, using the strength in his right arm to push itopen.

He'd shed his jerkin and wore only the black shirt she'd watch him don that morning, and she tried not to admire how his swelling bicep flexed with the effort.

She turned, hoping to hide her flush. However, she saw the shadows curling near his jaw at the action, and she blushed even deeper at what they were likely telling him.

"Say what you have to say and then go," she said. "I'm tired."

He didn't respond, and after the silence stretched Elain to her breaking point she turned expectantly.

"About last night," he said finally, and she felt her pulse jump. "I—" he paused, running a hand through his ebony hair, which was shot through with deep brown in the light.

"You?" she prompted, hating herself for sounding eager. She'd never realised until now how deep her masochistic streak ran.

"It was a—misunderstanding. And you're my friend, Elain," he added in an artful sidestep. "I don't want to feud with you, especially in a place as dreadful as this. Please, can't we put it behind us?"

He extended a scarred hand, and she eyed it warily. It was not what she'd could admit she'd been hoping he'd say, but she also knew he was right; this was better than fighting. And hadn't she promised herself she wouldn't hold him to her selfish expectations? Besides, what right did she have to want him, anyway? She was the one who'd allowed Lucien to kiss her, who'd agreed to go on a ride with him tomorrow. Whatever girlish feeling she'd developed for Azriel, she had to let them go, for all their sakes.

She forced her shoulders to drop as she accepted the gesture, though she felt an agonizing jolt zig-zag up her arm as he took her hand and pressed his lips to it.

"Thank you," he breathed against her skin, and she had to fend off a pleasurable shudder. Even that small contact was enough to send her reeling.

Disappointment clanged through her when he straightened, heading for the door.

"Wait!" she said, and he turned. "Will you stay for awhile?"

He didn't outwardly react, but she saw his laterals constrict in obvious discomfort.

"I just mean to…talk. You're the only person here that I feel I can be myself with."

His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes were glittering.

"I thought you said you were tired," he pointed out.

"I'll tell you what I know about Nesta and Cassian," she blurted, and at this he flashed her a modest smile.

"That is a tempting offer," he said, and she couldn't help but smile at the possibility, however meager, that he would actually stay.

"Only if you do the same," she added, relieved when she saw the tension melt from his staggering frame.

"Alright," he allowed. "Only for an hour or so."

In reality, he'd stayed nearly until dawn, admitting that when they were alone, Cassian could rarely stop talking about Nesta. In turn she'd confessed what she'd witnessed between them on the roof, and they spent the rest of the night debating who would be the first of the couple to break down and simply admit they had feelings for the other.

He'd come again the next night, and she'd asked him more about Velaris and told him about the mortal world in exchange. Soon it became habit, and even as she spent the majority of her days exploring the vast Spring territory with Lucien, she spent her nights talking to Azriel.

Some nights they laughed and talked about trivial things, and other they traded secrets. She'd cried the night he'd told her about how he'd gotten his scars, and again two days later as they discussed their respective gifts. She could feel herself wandering deeper and deeper into the distance he always kept between them, but somehow she couldn't find it in her to care. She craved his company, quickly found herself needing it, and if this was all she could have from him, she would gladly take it.

It was a thought that haunted her all through getting ready for Nynsar, even as Nuala and Cerridwen coaxed her into a dress so frivolous she wanted to cry. Or maybe that was just the looming prospect of seeing Azriel in his court attire again, or having to war with her very confusing feelings for Lucien. Since spending time with him, her mating instincts had flared up, sometimes urging her to fall into his arms even when her heart recoiled at the prospect. He hadn't touched her since the day he'd kissed her on their ride, and she was glad of it. At the same time, he was a male she held in the very highest regard, and the prospect of turning him down and breaking his heart was physically painful. If only, she mused, if only she could bestow every unrequited feeling she had for Azriel on Lucien, then all her problems would be solved.

She was drawn out of her revelry by Nuala's cool hand at her bare back. The twins had just finished putting an obscene number of pearls into her upswept hair, and Elain couldn't help feeling like a pin cushion.

"You're ready, my lady," Cerridwen said from Elain's other side, and she offered Elain a hand as she tried to detangle her legs from her sea of skirts.

She looked in the mirror a final time and grimaced. Her breasts were covered in little more than blooming roses held in place by a sheer cap-sleeved bodice, and the skirts were near three times as wide as Elain, covered in the same flowers laid over sky blue brocade. She turned to frown at the back, where strings of diamonds and pearls hung in lieu of fabric, the gown resuming again mere inches above her sacrum in an embarrassing fount of more roses.

She might have protested then, but there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," she called, hoping she knew who it was.

She wasn't disappointed. Azriel entered at her command, and as she watched his eyes skate down her back through the mirror, an unbidden warmth bloomed in her chest, even as she reminded herself that he was likely just taking in the spectacle of it all.

"I know," she said in greeting, turning around amidst a cacophony of whispering silk. "This is probably the worst one yet."

Azriel didn't crack the smile she'd hoped he would, but he at least met her gaze this time.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I feel absurd," she continued, biting her lip as she ran her hands down the overly-embellished bodice.

"You don't look it."

She fought not to flush.

"Thank you."

He gave a genteel nod, offering her an arm without further comment. She took it, noting that while his jacket made have looked black, up close it was midnight blue. As she subtly admired it on their journey to the ballroom, she tried not to notice how well it complimented her own gown.

They made the journey down in silence, and it was only when they approached the large doors that led to the ballroom that Azriel murmured, "Your ring. You took it off."

Her mouth went dry, and she felt herself flexing her left hand, still trying to get used to it's slightly lessened wait.

"I did," she agreed, unable to look at him.

"Why?" he asked.

She didn't answer, mostly because she wasn't sure. Perhaps she'd done it because she knew she'd be seeing Graysen tomorrow, and she couldn't bear to hear him demand she take it off a second time, or because over the last several weeks it had become more of a burden than a crutch. Mostly, it felt like the vestige of the girl she no longer was, and after more than half a year of mourning, she was ready to set that girl aside and become someone else.

"It was time," she said simply, and he nodded, his arm falling from hers as they walked into the glittering ballroom. She could feel his shadows rise as they stepped into the press of the crowd, and he seemed as if he wanted nothing more than to fade into their embrace and disappear from view. She felt much the same as the whispers began. She was on the verge of begging him to take her somewhere—anywhere—else, rumors be damned, when Lucien appeared at her opposite elbow, smiling softly.

He looked as ease in finery as Azriel looked uncomfortable, and she noted the way his emerald tunic set his hair—pulled back in a simple cue—ablaze.

"Dance with me?" he offered, and she fought not to glance at Azriel as

Lucien extended a hand.

She nodded wordlessly, and she felt Azriel fading to the corner to keep watch as Lucien swept her into a waltz. They moved for a minute or two in silence, but when Elain felt Lucien studying her, she blushed.

"What?" she said, wishing he would stop.

"This court suits you," he said, and she gave a soft huff of discontentment.

"I'm sure Tamlin would disagree."

He laughed, twirling her effortlessly even considering her monstrosity of a gown.

"I don't mean the people," he clarified. "I just mean that you remind me of spring. Delicate yet resilient, and made all the more lovely for your resiliency. You seemed more at ease in the sunshine and meadows here than you do in the wilds of the North."

She flushed at the sincerity in his tone, a guilt stirring at the observation. She was happier than she'd been in a long time, but it had very little to do with the sunshine. If anything, it was more a product of darkness and shadows.

"Is this your way of telling me I look ugly in black?" she teased, hoping to steer him away from anything too serious.

"You would be lovely dressed in rags," he breathed, pausing before continuing in a lower voice. "And lovelier still in nothing at all."

It was the first time he'd ever been so bold with her, and she fought down the twinging nerves in her gut. This was the male the cauldron had chosen for her, the one who'd shown her kindness in Hybern when everyone else had laughed. Why shouldn't she bestow her affection on him? He was certainly handsome enough, kind enough, funny enough. If he chose to love her, to honor the cauldron's wishes and mate her, why couldn't she just let him?

"I would never ask for anything that you wouldn't freely give," Lucien continued. "But know that anything you wished of me, it would be yours."

She knew, despite his earlier statement, he wasn't talking about bedding her, and that almost made it worse. She'd never really let herself consider his offer, but perhaps she ought to. After all, she'd seen what five centuries of pining could do to a person. Perhaps it was time she grew up and accepted this gift she'd been given.

"It's a very generous offer," she said. "I will…consider it."

He gave a soft smile edged in sadness.

"Tha's more than I dared hope," he admitted, and she offered him a shy smile.

Yes, she thought. This could be right. She could make it right, if only she tried. Besides, it was what was best for everyone, and Azriel would likely thank her for it, if only to rid himself of her unwanted affection.

She couldn't help but glance around to look for him at the thought, and she frowned as she watched him disappearing from his place against the window and into the hall.

She could tell even from a distance he was agitated, and her frown deepened.

"What is it?" Lucien asked, studying her expression.

Had something happened? Something with Feyre, or Nesta? It must have been important for Azriel to leave his post on a night he'd insisted he keep a close eye on her. Something unpleasant twinged in her gut, and she had the oddest feeling that it had something to do with her, or with what Lucien had said.

"I'm sorry," Elain said to Lucien, relieved when she felt his grip on her waist slackening. "I will be right back."

He nodded but didn't reply, and she made her way through the thickening crowd and out of the ballroom.

Elain swept into the darkened hallway, skirts rustling as she pulled them out of her way.

"Azriel?" she called, feeling foolish.

He had the ability to vanish into thin air, and clearly he was in no mood to socialize. The idea he was still in the corridor was rather absurd. However, she noticed how dark the end of the hall seemed, as if instead of a simple lack of illumination, something was pulsating an inky blackness. She plunged into the void with very little hesitation, weaving through the shadows to find Azriel standing with his back to her.

"Az," she said, daring a step forward to touch his broad back. As always, he stiffened at her touch. He'd been careful to keep their physical contact to a minimum since that night in his room, and she tried not to feel stung at how much her touch clearly repelled him. "What is it?" she pressed. "Has something happened?"

He didn't respond, though his wings flared slightly in agitation, the way Illyrians' often did when they were experiencing some extreme emotion.

"Is it something I—" she began, but she was cut off as he abruptly turned, wings snapping to his back as he backed her against the wall and kissed her.

She fought to master her surprise and confusion. But he didn't feel that way about her. Hadn't he told her as much? However, she found as he pressed up against her that she didn't much care.

She'd imagined kissing him many times over the last several weeks, but in her daydreams it had always been gentle and chaste. This was anything but. His soft mouth met her still parted lips, and he swallowed her gasp of surprise before brushing his tongue against hers. He tasted of mint, and she realized it too was part of the complex scent she always associated with him.

She groaned, not wanting to question his sudden change of heart as she drove a hand to tangle into the dark water of his hair, pulling him closer. In response he hoisted her more fully against him, using his strength to keep her pinned, feet suspended, against the wall. His fingers sank into the sea of her gown as his skilled tongue continued to torment her. He pulled away just long enough to drag his teeth across her bottom lip, and she moaned when they sank down and tugged gently.

Close as they were, it didn't feel like enough, and Elain arched her back so that her breasts were flush to his heaving chest. She felt the muscles in his abdomen clench in response, and the long fingers of his left hand tangled into her hair as the right gathered the material of her skirts in a fist until he'd bared her leg.

She bent it in invitation as his fingers skimmed her calf, his palm sliding over her knee before gripping her bare thigh. Sometime during his sensuous assault his wings had unfurled, and she reached back with a free hand, tracing the innermost curve of his left one.

He groaned into her neck as she repeated to motion, and every nerve began to hum as she felt his body react to her touch. She trailed down to brush the ultra-sensitive undercurve where it arced out near his trim waist, and he hardened even further, his lips trailing her jaw before finding hers again.

Seemingly encouraged by her boldness, he used the hand on her leg as leverage, dragging her closer until their bodies were in perfect carnal alignment. His scraped his teeth against her pulse point as he rolled his hips, and the sensation that uncoiled in her belly made it impossible to breathe. He did it again, and she let out a soft moan, riding him even through the ocean of gown between them.

The need to have him, to be had by him, was by this time nearly unbearable, but some distant part of her registered that they were still in public. They needed to get out of the hallway, away from prying eyes and ears, even if Azriel did have them cloaked in shadow.

Besides, she didn't want it to be like this. She wanted to see him fully unclothed, to feel his satiny skin under her hands and that wicked tongue between her—

She tried to get out her protestations, to tell him to take her to his bed even as she ran her nails down his wings and he moaned, but as his teeth grazed her pulse point again and her mind went numb, the only word she managed to choke out was,  _"Lucien."_

Azriel went completely rigid, and Elain let out a strangled sob, still trying to reassemble her sanity and explain. However, the next moment he was pulling away, and she felt another sob tear from her at the lost of his warmth, of the heated steel of his muscles—of other parts of him—pressed tightly against her. She slid back to her feet like a rag doll as he stepped back.

"Azriel," she pleaded, but he shook his head. "Please," she said. "It's not what you think. I just—"

She reached for him and he shrank away like a beaten dog. She could see in the slope of his shoulders the tortured boy he'd been all those centuries ago, and she hated herself for whatever horrific memories she'd dredged up with her thoughtless mistake.

"I'm sorry," she croaked.

"Don't be." He bit out before she could continue. "You've don't nothing wrong."

"But It's not what you—"

He had his back to her now, and she reached out to touch him—to touch his right wing, the closest body part available to her. However, he snapped it in tight enough to make her wince before glancing over his shoulder at her.

"Azriel," she breathed unhappily, trailing a step after him.

He turned as he retreated backwards , as if protecting his wings from her insidious touch.

"Please," he grit out, his shadows writhing around him as if they themselves were in physical pain. Their agitation told her enough about what her mistake had done to him, how deeply it had cut. "Don't follow me."

With that, he vanished into swirling shadow and was gone.


	6. Part VI

##   **Part VI: Azriel**

Azriel winnowed deep into the hedge maze at the Southern end of Tamlin’s lurid estate, wrapping himself in darkness and snarling his pained frustration. When he was done, he let his body go limp, resting his forehead on the cool lip of a nearby fountain as he tried to gentle the roaring hiss of secrets the shadows whispered into his ear. He’d trained for nearly half a millennia to master them, and normally with his unassailable control, they were easy to filter. However, what happened with Elain had fractured his composure, and with the floodgates broken, Azriel was struggling not to drown in them.

_Your absence has been noted. Three sentries disbatched to follow. The wraiths are with the girl. The Autumn lordling is looking for her as well. He suspects—_

Azriel let out another pained snarl, struggling to overpower a foreign sensation clawing up his chest that was making it difficult to breathe. He hadn’t felt anything like it since the day the Illyrians had dragged him out of his father’s house screaming nearly six centuries ago. He took a shuddering breath, fighting to lower his pulse. It was only after he mastered the feeling and took a full, deep breath that he recognized it for what it was: the urge to cry.

Azriel had once heard Rhys describe him as a creature of icy rage, and his brother was right; Azriel had always kept himself cocooned in ice, because to him, heat was nothing more than pain. Heat was the scorch of the oil on his hands as they caught alight. It was the ruination of his flesh, the smell of his skin as it burned off his bones. Heat was the look in Morrigan’s eyes as they fell on Cassian that day in the camp, and the searing pain when he’d learned that she had chosen his best friend over him.

So Azriel plunged his heart, ravaged by all he’d seen and endured, into a darkness so frigid that it too had burned, and he’d held it under the cold until it had hardened to bitter ice, and nothing could touch it. Not his desire for Mor nor his hatred of his brothers, and not the searing knowledge that in both instances, he’d been unwanted, unworthy. The numbness, though imperfect, had worked, and for hundreds of years his heart had remained that way: savagely frozen, impervious to heat.

But Lucien had been right; Elain  _was_  like Spring. She was the warmth of new beginning, and like all wintery things, Azriel’s frigidity had thawed under her careful touch. She’d done it with her smiles, and her fragile courage, and her enduring belief that no matter how bitter the winter, the flowers would bloom again at the turn of the seasons.

He’d known it had been happening for awhile, known it since the day he’d risked everything to go to Hybern and rescue her, and had tried to guard himself against it, but the last few weeks had completely undone him. Seeing her smile at him, hearing her laugh and cry—both of which were so achingly honest—it had all worn away what little resistance he’d still had.

And tonight, when he’d seen her with Lucien, watched them dance and heard the shadows whispering to him the offers the spoiled little lordling had made her, Azriel had felt a heat, unfamiliar and dangerous, blooming in his chest.

It was anger, first and foremost, anger towards the cauldron for granting an unworthy vulpine like Lucien Vanserra Elain as a mate. It was also jealousy, the same he’d felt towards Cassian when he’d bedded the female he loved. It was the white-hot pain at the realization that just as it had been with Mor, it could’ve been him that Elain had chosen, but wasn’t.

More than anything, though, it was desire. He wanted Elain, had wanted her for a long time, and as he’d listened to his newly-revived heart pounding hot blood into his ears, he’d been nearly overcome with the need to have her, mind, body, and soul.

And when she’d come to him, when she’d left Vanserra to seek him out, he’d snapped. He’d spent centuries honing his control, teaching himself patience and restraint, and she’d shattered it all in a single evening.

He could still feel the soft material of her gown under his fingertips, and the press of her gorgeous breasts against his chest. And when she’d touched his wings, Cauldron damn him, he’d been ready to push up her skirts and fuck her in the hall, he’d been so blinded by want.

But had only taken two syllables from her to bring it all down, and in point of fact, it had been perhaps the only word capable of breaking the fugue her touch and taste had thrown him into.

_Lucien._

And the way she said it, the desperation and need in it, it had broken Azriel. He felt all of it—everything he’d spent centuries holding at bay—crash into him all at once.

Whatever slow, slouching agony Azriel had endured over Mor, whatever lessons he thought it might have taught him about managing disappointment, hearing Elain say another male’s name while she was in his arms had been so much  worse. At least with Mor, he’d never allowed himself to touch her, or to fully acknowledge just how badly he wanted her to return his affections, however pathetic and unrequited. That last little distance—that barest stretch of dignity he’d retained by not seeking her out—had been his salvation through centuries of wanting.

But with Elain…

He’d ceded the majority of hope he’d ever had of not wanting her for the rest of eternity when he’d let her touch his wings that night in his bedroom, and he’d yielded the rest when he’d kissed her tonight and let himself fully imagine what it would be like to be loved by her, to have her always at his side.

He let out yet another pained snarl, banging his fist on the fountain’s lip so hard that the water within shuddered in fear.

The shadows continued to roar in his ears, but even through the chaotic, cacophonous disappointment eddying his thoughts, he felt something foreign lurking at the edge of the poisonous fog that made up his mental shield, seeking permission to enter. He rolled his neck and let go of his strangling grip on the shadows, allowing the presence into the antechamber of his mind.

 _What the **hell** is going on? _Rhys’s voice echoed. _Mother’s tits, I can feel you seething from here._

Azriel clenched his jaw but didn’t reply. He couldn’t bare to voice what had happened, even knowing Rhys of all people would understand.

 _Talk_   Rhys commanded.  _What’s going on? Is Elain alright?_

“She’s— _beautiful, brave, in love with another male_ —she’s fine.”

_And you?_

“You know me.”

_Yes, I do. That’s why I’m asking._

Azriel felt the prescense in his mind rallying its strength, seeking to gain further entry.

“Get out my head,” he snarled, snapping at a tendril of Rhys’s power with a barbed one of his own.

_Then tell me what’s going on with you! I can feel your distress from Velaris!_

“I’m not distressed.”

_Unhinged, then. Seriously, Az I—_

“Can you never mind your own damn business?”

Azriel felt Rhys’s energy change, felt it sharpen and grow dark.

_I’m still your high lord. Tell me what’s going on or I swear to The Mother Az, I will unleash Nesta Archeron on you. Or maybe I’ll have Cassian kick your ass, I haven’t decided._

"Go ahead,” Azriel snarled quietly.

He could take Cassian and they both knew it. Besides, a few broken ribs would be a welcome distraction from the evening so far. Anything to numb the memory of Elain’s hands sliding through his hair, down his chest…

_Is it Vanserra? Has he—done something? Said something to you or Elain?_

"He’s a child; I can handle him.”

_But does he **need** handling?_

“It’s nothing,” Azriel replied, clenching and unclenching his left fist. He needed to hit something. Or better yet, someone.

 _Fine,_ Rhys snapped.  _But I want you back in Velaris in three days, or I will send Feyre and Nesta to sort whatever this is out._

“We leave for the mortal lands tomorrow. Depending on what happens with the boy, we could be back in Velaris by sundown.”

_I will hold you to that, then._

“Fine,” Azriel said. “We’ll speak when I return.”

There was silence on the other end of the sinuous connection, but Azriel could feel Rhys’s presence linger.

_Az, are you sure you’re alright?_

“I said I was fine.”

_Is this about you and Elain?_

Azriel’s throat ached with the effort of keeping his voice even.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

_You don’t have to lie to me, brother. I see the way y—_

Azriel snapped down his shields without so much as a goodbye, feeling with grim satisfaction as Rhys’s voice was smothered by the dark fog.

He stood alone in the darkness for several more minutes, fighting to force his pain back into the icy chest he’d kept it in all these years.

Some sick, tortured part of him yearned to go to Elain even now, to hear what she’d been about to say when he’d disappeared. She’d kissed him back, after all, and the way she’d touched his wings with such careful intent and writhed against him…

No, he wouldn’t. She’d made it clear enough where her heart lay. He wouldn’t burden her with the odious task of formally rejecting him, and he couldn’t trust his fractured composure not to betray him. No, he would stay here until he could master himself, even if it took all night. He had no choice but to face her when they left the following morning, but he promised himself that by then, he would be in control again. He didn’t have a choice: their mission was far from complete, and the journey would only get more difficult from here.

He forced all the tension, all the frustration and pain, from his shoulders and back, down his arms and stomach until the power of it was concentrated in his scarred hands, his favourite reminder of just how unworthy he’d always been, always would be. He snarled, and he felt the lip of the fountain strain beneath his grip, a thin tracery of  cracks spidering through the marble.

The violence of it made him feel—if not better—at least less manic, and he let out a shuddering breath, head hanging low enough that he felt his shoulder blades touching, his wings forming a dark mandorla behind him that shielded him from prying eyes. Tamlin’s sentries where still trying to sniff him out, the shadows warned him. Azriel let himself fade deeper into darkness. If someone were to pick a fight with him now, he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold back from tearing them apart, and he didn’t relish in the prospect of igniting a war with Spring over something so petty and selfish.

He tensed when he felt a shadowy presence appear behind him, but he forced himself to relax as Nuala approached. She stopped a measured distance away, waiting calmly for him to speak.

“Report,” he said, forcing his voice flat.

“Three sentinels were dispatched to find you, but they have been misdirected. The Lady Elain is in her room, and Cerridwen is with her.”

She paused, and he knew what she was hesitant to say.

“And the Autumn lordling?” he asked for her.

“Still at the festivity. Though he’s begun to make inquiries after her. Would you like me to…keep him distracted?”

Azriel clenched and unclenched his fist, tempted—so bloody tempted—to say yes. Because he’d seen the way Lucien had been looking at Elain, heard the subtle offer he’d made her. Not that Azriel could blame the spoiled prick for wanting Elain. She was his mate, after all, and she was so unbearably beautiful—the most beautiful female Azriel had ever seen. Even now, he could feel his own desire for her roiling like poison in his gut.

“No,” he bit out after a beat. “Just…keep an eye on him, and tell me where he goes.”

Nuala paused again. She’d been in his service enough to know his moods, and she must sense how black it was at present, how snarled and jagged the usually polished edges of his demeanor had grown.

“And if he should come to My Lady’s room?” she asked finally.

Azriel felt a surge of fetid emotion swell at the thought of Lucien’s hands on Elain, his lips on her bare skin…

“If she wishes to invite him in, that is her choice. I am her companion, not her keeper.”

He felt Nuala’s consideration as she debated commenting. He prayed she wouldn’t. He knew he’d trained her too well and that she’d seen too much of what had passed between him and Elain not to know the score by now, but he couldn’t bear the humiliation of all of it being dragged into the open.

“And you?” she said at length.

He felt more than heard as she chanced a small step forward. Not close enough to touch him, but enough that he could feel her shadows, cool and nimble, twining with his.

His own surged at the quiet caress, rising to whisper her silent invitation in her ear.

_Ask her to your bed. She will not refuse. She will be attentive, she will—_

Azriel turned, forcing himself to meet Nuala’s obsidian eyes. It would not be the first time he’d bedded her, but this was different. He could sense her offer, though sincere, was perfunctory, not born of any real desire for him. He wouldn’t be so selfish as to use her sense of duty against her. She was a loyal lieutenant, and she deserved better than to be a stand-in or a warm body. Besides, even if he hadn’t respected her as much as he did, he doubted bedding another female could lessen the pain of wanting Elain.

“I’ve heard the scouts report of trouble along the Northeastern border,” he said in answer. “I want to find out more before we leave. If Beron Vanserra is up to something, I would know what it is before we leave here.”

She nodded, stepping back dutifully.

“Of course,” she said, giving a small bow. “I will stay here.”

He nodded too, wishing he could find a way to express his gratitude to her without losing his grip on the reigns of the weak bit he’d managed to wrestle between his pain’s sharp, stubborn teeth.

“Thank you, Nuala,” he managed, and she inclined her head again.

“Anything, my lord.”

He bristled at the title, an ill-fitting moniker only the wraiths ever forced on him, despite centuries of protestation. Unable to find the strength to fight her on it tonight, he unfurled his wings in tacit farewell, offering her only the barest nod before exploding into the night with a leathery boom.

Azriel stayed awake until dawn, flying unseen over the territory, all the way to the outskirts of the Autumnal border. There he listened to the scout’s reports of what they’d seen, of the few Autumn spies they’d caught lurking to close to the demarcation line between their two terrorities. None of them seemed to know what they wanted, even Tamlin, who showed up to receive reports of his own just before daybreak. Lucien, Azriel noted, was not with him, and Azriel tried to assure himself it was because he was no longer Tamlin’s emissary, and that despite their professed friendship, he was no longer privy to Tamlin’s secrets. It was a desperate hope, but Azriel clung to it, not able to bear the alternative. He’d heard nothing from Nuala after he’d left her, but she seemed to understand the situation well enough that she likely would have withheld any information she knew would hurt him, unless it compromised Elain’s safety.

Azriel arrived back to his room in the early hours of morning, feeling weary to his very bones. He’d expected to have a better grip on his emotions by now, but he still felt hollowed out and raw. A few more days, he reassured himself. It was only a few more days, and when he got back to Velaris, he’d beg Rhys for something—anything—to take him out of the city and away from Elain and Lucien for a time. He hoped the distance might lend him perspective, and peace, and that when he returned, he and Elain could go back to the friendship they’d shared before all this, just as he and Mor had done so many centuries ago.

It was the prospect of losing that, he realized, that scared him more than having to watch her mate another male. He wanted Elain, yes, he likely always would, but it was her spirit—her soul—he loved best about her, and it would be worth any other pain to be allowed to keep spending time with her as they’d done in the months after Hybern’s defeat. He only prayed now that she would accept it, and that as her mate, Lucien would find the restraint to bear it.

Once in his room, he practically tore the fine velvet jacket he still wore in his haste to get the garment off. It still smelled faintly of Elain, he realized, and the scent had been quietly driving him to madness all evening, even as he struggled to get her out of his thoughts. He tried not to breathe in as he wrestled the monstrosity over his head, but he couldn’t escape the whisper of rose and magnolia that brushed against his senses. Even now, even after everything that had happened, he could feel his body react to the smell, to the memory of her soft body undulating against—

He growled, ripping off his boots and hurling one at the wall hard enough to crack some of the gilded moulding. Satisfied, he prowled into the bathing room, filling the tub with scalding hot water and generous amounts of eucalyptus to cool his sizzling nerves. He still didn’t feel entirely in control of himself, and he feared what would happen if he faced Elain with anything other than full restraint.

He felt his shadows rise in a flare, whispering to him as he settled into the bath.

_The lordling did not visit her during the night, but he is with her now. They are sharing a private meal. She is calmed by his presence._

Azriel considered this before pushing the shadows outward, letting them slip from beneath the door and slither across the hall, until they could hear what was being said in the room beyond.

“You retired early last night,” Lucien commented. His tone was light, carefully observational, but the shadows could sense the underlying desperation in the question.

 _He suspects_ , they whispered to Azriel.  _He fears that Elain sought you out. He wishes to reassure himself._

“I’m sorry,” Elain said in response to Lucien’s unspoken question. “It’s been a trying few weeks, and I just wanted to be well-rested for our journey.”

Lucien remained silent as he considered. The shadows noted his elevated pulse, the way he seemed to fight to keep him muscles relaxed.

“I hope it isn’t because of what I said,” he finally managed. “I would never want you to feel as if I expect…“

He trailed off, and the shadows drank in the younger male’s quiet desperation.

“I don’t,” Elain assured him, and there was a soft affection in her tone. Azriel knew she could sense Lucien’s distress as well, and it wasn’t in her nature to allow someone to flounder in their own pain, particularly not someone with whom she shared such a holy bond. “I am flattered you find me so—“

“I do,” Lucien said in a soft, intent voice. “Elain, I—“

Azriel let out a pained snarl, withdrawing his shadows to avoid hearing any more. He watched as they bled into the water of the bath instead, leeching the it’s warmth and mirror-bright reflection until the water was obsidian and bitterly cold. Azriel forced himself to remain for several minutes, letting the chill center him. Only when he felt his muscles begin to go numb from cold did he let himself get out, dressing with brutal Illyrian efficiency. Even still, he felt his fingers trembling slightly as he attached Truth-teller to his leg. He flexed his hands several times in an effort to dispel their shaking.

He could do this. He’d faced far worse than this in his life, and he wasn’t seventeen anymore. Rolling his shoulders and letting his wings flex in agitation, he finally tucked them to his back, feeling better as he slid his sword home into the sheath along his spine. He was free from the insidious restraints of court, he reminded himself, and it made him feel a fraction less manic. An hour, tops, and he would be free of this place and the mess he’d made for himself here. If he was lucky, it would be a hundred years before he was forced to return here, if not longer.

Touching Truth-teller’s hilt to steel his nerve, he crossed the hall and knocked on Elain’s door.

“Who is it?” Lucien called, and Azriel grit his teeth in irritation.

He debated a sharp retort, the same kind Vanserra himself would have given were their positions reversed. Instead he merely admitted himself, closing the door behind him with a soft snick.

He forced his eyes to pass over Elain in an assessing arc, as if merely insuring she was safe and suitably outfitted for travel. In reality, seeing her, having her scent wash over him, was the most exquisite agony, a twisting of the knife the previous evening have jammed into his gut.

Elain was dressed in a simple gown in midnight blue, which set off her creamy ivory skin and made her brown eyes seem almost gold. Someone—likely Cerridwen—had plaited her hair down her back, and even now, Azriel had to fight down the urge to run the silken rope of it’s length through his fingers. He settled for flexing them instead, letting his expression grow harder as he turned to Lucien.

“Alright, let’s hear this plan of yours.”

Lucien had—to Azriel’s furious chagrin—kept their travel route to himself for the past several weeks, insisting that its secret needed to be guarded until it was absolutely necessary to divulge it. Azriel had bristled at the enduring insult of the gesture, of the suggestion he either couldn’t or wouldn’t keep the stupid, spoiled lordling’s secrets if asked.

Lucien crossed his arms.

“We winnow to the coast, and take a ship to the continent from there.”

“A ship?” Azriel repeated incredulously.

“A clever invention to safely transport one across a body of water,”  Lucien replied in a glib tone, giving Elain a small wink that had Azriel seeing red. “Have you truly never heard of one?”

Azriel loosed a soft growl, fighting to keep his wings from unfurling to express the full measure of his agitation. It was Illyrian instinct to show one’s wings when challenged, and the urge was especially strong when a contested female was present. He’d already slipped up and done it once in front of Vanserra. He couldn’t afford a second time. Besides, he reminded himself, there would be no more contesting for Elain’s favor from his end.

“We don’t have time for your childish games, Vanserra,” he warned in a quiet, deadly voice. “It’s more than a   week from the kingdom by sea, and we’ll be vulnerable to attack.”

“Attack from whom, Shadowsinger? No one knows where we’re going.”

“Tamlin knows,” Azriel shot back coolly. “That’s more than enough threat for me.”

Lucien bristled at the insult to his friend, and Azriel felt his fury growing. How Vanserra could stand there, after everything Tamlin had put Azriel’s family through—put Lucien’s own mate through—and still defend the prick, Azriel would never understand.

“The kingdom’s borders are warded,” Lucien said prudently instead. "Vassa’s guards have orders to shoot anyone who tampers with them on sight.”

“Leave that to me,” Azriel said. “I can get through a few wards.”

“And if you do?” Lucien said. “How will you explain our presence at court if we simply appear out of thin air?”

“Perhaps if I’d known this was your plan three weeks ago, I would have an answer to that question.”

“You—“ Lucien began, but Elain cut him off.

“Please, let’s not fight,” she said, worrying a pair of soft riding gloves in her hands. “Azriel, if Lucien says this is the best way, I think we ought to trust him.”

Azriel felt the knife sinking in just that much deeper, and he had to keep himself from flinching at her words, and the realization that lay behind them. It was Lucien she trusted, Lucien she’d chosen to follow.

“Az,” she said gently, and he stiffened at the gentleness of her tone, and the intimacy in evoking a diminutive he’d only allowed a handful of people to ever use. “Please.”

He couldn’t help it; he glanced up at her, and the look she was giving him was enough to make him regret it. Her expression was a bare echo of the pained one she’d given him the previous evening, after things had gone so terribly wrong between them. Still, he couldn’t find it in himself to undermine her decision by refusing to honor it, and anyways, he wasn’t sure he could resist attacking Vanserra if they kept arguing.

“Fine,” he said, needing to get out of this room, out of this damn territory. “But if something should go awry, Vanserra, know that it’ll be on your head.”

Lucien rolled his eyes like the petulant child he still seemed to Azriel, and he had to fight not to spring at the other male. He flexed his left hand to keep it from straying to Truth-teller’s hilt.

“Make your preparations, then,” Azriel said. “We’ll leave at nine bells.”

Lucien bristled at the command in Azriel’s tone, but he ignored the younger male, letting his eyes pass over Elain and hoping she couldn’t see all the things he was still longing to say. With a bare nod to her, he left the room, crossing into his own and making for a small table in the back arranged with a number of ornate liquor bottles. Not bothering with one of the crystal glasses, Azriel unstoppered one and took a long, bitter swig. It burned going down, but he ignored the cloying taste, taking another sizable draught, then another.

“Is that wise, My Lord?” a soft voice echoed. “You have a long journey ahead of you.”

Azriel didn’t turn, but he did set down the bottle he was holding, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before, and his empty stomach rioted in protest at the liquor now heaving in his belly.

“Not now, Nuala. Please.”

“I would not see you make yourself sick, My Lord.”

Azriel grit his teeth, even as his stomach continued to roil.

“If I wanted a lecture,” he said. “I would have brought Morrigan.”

She didn’t reply to this, and Azriel knew her training was telling her she’d said what she needed to.

“I need you to go back to Velaris,” he said. “The plan has changed, and Rhys needs to be informed.”

“My Lord—“ she began, but he turned, holding up a hand.

“It’s not a dismissal, Nuala,” he assured her. “But I don’t have a way to reach The High Lord, and I gave him my word that I’d be back in Velaris by last light.”

It wasn’t strictly true, he could drop his mental shields and call out, but he was still having some difficulty keeping his shadows on a leash, and he didn’t want Rhys to know, though he likely already suspected.

“You could send Cerridwen,” she pointed out.

“I could,” he agreed. “But I am sending you. Can I trust you to follow my orders?”

She nodded, and he felt a whisper of her darkness brush against his in a gesture of silent comfort.

“Thank you,” he said, and she nodded again, already blurring into shadow.

Azriel let out a long breath when she was gone, resisting the urge to take another swallow from the bottle. Nuala was right, it was a long journey, and he wasn’t Cassian; he knew better try and drown his problems in liquor. In the end, they never died, only resurfaced gorged on drink.

Retreating into the bathing room, he washed out his mouth instead, splashing cold water on his face and neck.

_The High Lord waits in the Receiving Hall. Your presence is expected. The guard has been doubled, and they grow restless._

Steeling himself, Azriel strode from the room, trying to ignore the faint lingering scent from the night Elain had healed his wings. Without even fully realizing it, he’d been preserving it, not allowing it to fade. It had been a foolish decision, especially as it tortured him one final time, but he couldn’t help clinging to it, nor could he deny that with the exception of the night before, her familiar aroma had helped him sleep better than he had in decades. Centuries, even.

Letting the door slam shut behind him, he swiftly made his way down to the Receiving Hall, where Elain, Lucien, Tamlin, and—indeed—a small army of guards awaited.

“I’m not accustomed to being made to wait, Shadowsinger,” Tamlin said in greeting, and Azriel only clenched his jaw in response. He was so close to freedom, there didn’t seem much point in souring it by punching the smarmy bastard in the face.

There was a beat of charged silence before Lucien stepped from Elain’s side, extending a hand to his friend. Tamlin accepted the gesture, and the two males gripped one another at the elbow before embracing.

“See you soon, Tam,” Lucien assured him, pulling away. Tamlin didn’t reply, but his expression was warmer than usual, and when his eyes fell on Elain, he held out a hand for hers.

Elain hesitated so briefly Azriel was sure that only he and the shadows noticed before slipping her gloved hand into his. Tamlin pressed a courtly kiss onto the supple suede sheathing her knuckles.

“It’s been an honor, Elain Archeron,” he said in a flat, cordial tone. “And I was right in my predictions. Despite your…” he glanced up at Lucien. “situation, I have been inundated with requests for your hand in marriage, Princess of Thorns or no.”

Lucien let out a low snarl Azriel himself only barely managed to keep back.

“Tell me the hands,” Lucien said, tone acerbic. “So I can cut them off.”

Tamlin gave a light laugh, and Elain used the opportunity to retract her hand and retreat back to Lucien’s side.

“Don’t worry, Lucien,” he chided, the bitterness edging back into his tone as he watched his friend press a reassuring hand to Elain’s back. “It seems you have little to fear where your mate is concerned.”

Elain flushed scarlet, and Azriel felt his own temper straining at the leash. He knew that Elain already felt enough pressure to fulfill expectations and mate Lucien. It made Azriel’s blood boil to see her goaded about it. Or perhaps that was simply his jealousy rearing its ugly head at the prospect of Elain becoming another male’s bride. No, not another male, he reminded herself. Her match, Cauldron-divined and Mother-blessed.

It was here, while Azriel was still fighting to keep his expression blank, that Tamlin’s eyes slid to him and went cold.

"Tell your high lord that I expect an invitation to his fabled city of stars. I think after this visit I’m owed the same plunder of secrets that my territory just endured from you.

Azriel felt his ire bend to near breaking. The shadows told him he was on dangerous ground, furiously noted the rising heartbeats of the soldiers around him. He crossed his arms to keep from going for Truth-teller, and his back was screaming with the effort of keeping his wings tucked in behind him.

"The next time he leaves my high lady’s bed for more than an hour,” he spat quietly. "I will be sure to let him know.”

Tamlin unsheathed his claws and snarled, and Azriel felt his siphons flaring, all the pain and frustration of the previous evening sizzling under his skin, trying to fight free.

“How dare you,” Tamlin seethed, and Azriel only bared his teeth, wings tearing free in obvious challenge.

He would apologize to Rhys later, he thought as he felt the sentries moving in on him. As long as he didn’t kill anyone, he doubted Tamlin would have the balls to go to war over this.

“If I may,” Elain interjected breathlessly, tearing from Lucien side until she was in Tamlin’s line of sight, blocking his view of Azriel. Azriel’s agitation grew at seeing the female he loved so close to those lethal claws. “The Shadowsinger doesn’t speak for Rhysand or my sister. If it’s an invitation you’ve been waiting for, then perhaps you’d accept one from me on their behalf. Come for the Winter Solstice and dine as a guest of honour at the High lord and Lady’s table. I think you’ve find they are both eager to mend the hurt between your two households.”

Tamlin considered Elain, chest still heaving, but something in her expression must have assuaged him, because after a second his claws retracted. Or perhaps it was simply her loveliness that had turned him. It was no exaggeration that she had a face designed to bring men to their knees, a face so exquisite in its rendering that the Cauldron itself had fallen in love with her, besotted enough to give her a gift it granted few others.

“You’ve taught her well, Lucien,” Tamlin said after a breath, still drinking Elain in. Azriel could sense her revulsion, but it didn’t show on her face as she continued to hold the High Lord’s gaze. “I accept your invitation, Lady. And you,” He turned back to Azriel, who let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding since Elain jumped in Tamlin’s path. "If you ever step foot in my territory again, your life will be forfeit. That’s a promise.”

Azriel, feeling at the end of his rope, simply wrapped himself in shadow and vanished, trying to calm himself down, cool the burning in his chest that had ignited the minute he’d heard Elain leave the party to come after him. He winnowed to the first checkpoint he and Lucien had agreed on, flexing and unflexing his fighting hand as he paced.

At the sound of a small pop he turned, sneering at Lucien as he advanced.

"What the hell is wrong with you?” Lucien said, shoving Azriel and nearly unraveling his tenuous control.

“Don’t touch me,” Azriel seethed, itching to teach this stupid, arrogant, unworthy welp the lesson he’d been itching to teach the High Lord.

"Whatever it is you’re sulking about Illyrian, I suggest you get over it.”

Azriel bared his teeth, wishing Cassian was there to knock the prick on his ass.

“I don’t sulk,” he snarled quietly.

Lucien gave a bitter laugh, ignoring Elain’s fretful glance darting between the two males.

"What’s wrong?” he jeered, making Azriel see red. "One of your wraiths refuse to suck your—”

Azriel flexed his power the same way one might a muscle, and his siphons flared, a Quarterstaff of blue admanant appearing in his left hand. He twirled it deftly as he used his right had to block a burst of autumnal fire before swinging it with blinding speed, knocking the spoiled lordling on his ass. Quick as an asp, he’d halved the staff into two wicked batons, turning to square off with Vanserra where he now stood, blade drawn.

“Stop!” Elain cried, breaking the blinding rage Azriel had slipped into. He could see the batons’ azure glow reflected in her eyes, and he let the power slip until they disappeared. “Lucien’s right,” she continued, gaze harder than usual. “That’s  _enough_.”

Lucien was still snarling as he pulled her away from Azriel, as if to protect her. And she—Azriel felt the vice in his chest tighten. She let him, let him sweep her behind him.

Because he was her mate. Because they’d been made—designed—to protect one another from outside threats, just as they were doing now. And Azriel—he was that threat. He’d often felt uncomfortable in his own skin, especially with his scars, but he’d never felt so monstrous as he did watching Elain avoid his gaze from behind Lucien’s shoulder.

“Let’s go,” Lucien said, turning his back to Azriel and igniting Azriel’s savage Illyrian instinct to drive Truth-Teller between the bastard’s eleventh and twelfth vertabrae, piercing his heart and severing his spine in one deft move.

Azriel felt another wave of acrid jealousy course through him as Lucien smoothed the tail of Elain’s braid between his thumb and forefinger, and in an instant he had his wings unfurled, flexing them wide before leaping into the air.

“Wait!” Elain cried, her hair whipping in the gust he’d created. “Where are you going?”

_Away from you. Away from your scent, your smile, that pleading look in your—_

“To scout ahead,” he said flatly. “I will meet you at the harbor no later than midday.“

“Stay out of sight,” Lucien warned. “We’re close enough to the coast that Tamlin could claim plausible deniability if he had one of his sentries shoot you out of the sky.”

Azriel bared his pearly teeth in a snarl.

“Let him try,” he said before shooting through the cloud bank and out of sight.

It was colder the higher he climbed, but he found the farther he got from Lucien and Elain, the easier it was to breathe. He let the chill soak into his skin, his hair, willing it to cool his blood. He could do this, he’d done it before, for almost five hundred years. That was different, though. So, so, different.

With Mor, he’d been little older than a child, unsure of himself and unable to control his desperate emotions. Besides, he’d been given a small reprieve from his pining for her when, sometime during Rhys’s exile Under the Mountain, Mor had come home one evening smelling of wine, sweat, and female desire and dropped, drunk, into Azriel’s bed.

At first he’d thought it was her own, and the realization that she’d come from another male’s bed had nearly undone him. However, as he’d lain there, trying not to breathe her in, he realized that while there was a foreign scent of desire clinging to her, it too was female. It was in that moment that the shadows whispered to him the secret he’d somehow never been able to see.

She’s taken a female lover, not her first. She is perhaps falling in love, and comes to you because she trusts you, thinks you a safe harbor.

It didn’t lessen the sense of unworthiness he’d always felt where Mor was concerned, the feeling too deeply ingrained to be erased in a single evening, but it was at least a small reprieve. It had still been painful to learn she’d bedded the Lord of Day during the war, but he also knew Mor well enough by then to understand why she’d done it. He was still waiting to hear it all from her, but knowing that it wasn’t Cassian she’d chosen, but freedom from her future, had been a balm.

But what he’d done last night…

With Mor, it had been misguided infatuation, and one that she’d always been careful not to encourage. With Elain, he could no longer deny that he was catastrophically in love with her, and it was a feeling he knew not even eternity would ever diminish.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus on the boom of his wings and the howl of the wind to calm himself. He’d been foolish to think he could ever go back to being her friend, and the realization rocked him so thoroughly he nearly lost his balance and tumbled from the sky like a felled bird. He’d ruined the best and most perfect thing that had ever been his when he’d crossed that line between them last night and taken advantage in a way she perhaps hadn’t even understood. He didn’t deserve her or her friendship, and he could no longer be around her, would have to do everything in his power to keep her away.

He was spent by the time he reached the coast and spotted the small schooner docked and waiting for them. It was crewed by mortals, he realized, all of whom bore Vassa’s crest. They all shrank back as Azriel landed on the deck, but he ignored them, grateful at least that to hear that Elain was taking a nap below. It meant that she was safe, and that he would be spared the agony of having to face her for at least a few more hours.

Giving the deck a final assessing sweep, he made to take back to the skies. If he stayed away long enough, she would be asleep again when he returned.

So he flew aimlessly back and forth up the coast, half-heartedly checking for threats and making sure to give the wards at the mortal shores a wide berth. Lucien had been right when he said they were well-protected, though Azriel would never admit as much  aloud. It needled at Azriel, another reminder of his failure to infiltrate the other queen’s courts during the war, a failure which had cost them 78 lives in the attack on Velaris. As he ruminated on his own shortcomings, and the fact Lucien had not only managed what he couldn’t, but that his alliance with Vassa and Elain’s father had likely helped turn the tide during the final battle, he felt himself fraying at the seams. It was no wonder Elain preferred him, mate or no. He’d done what Azriel could not; he’d saved them.

It was dark by the time he arrived back on the ship’s deck, back aching from so many hours in flight. He ought to rest, he could feel the lack of sleep tugging at him. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to go below decks. On top of everything, he realized he was eager to get back to the Night Court lands, and being under the stars, dim though they were in this part of the country, helped ease some of his distress.

As he stood, eyes closed as the night breeze rustled his hair, he felt his shadows rise, hearing their whispered warning a moment too late.

“We thought perhaps you weren’t coming back.”

Azriel fought not to tense as Elain’s sweet earthen scent washed over him. It was the most exquisite agony to be this close to her again, especially in a darkness so like the one they’d held each other in last night. Unsure of what to say, he didn’t reply, nor did he look at her as Elain swept forward to stand beside him. Her hair was unbound, and he felt it’s phantom brush on his arm, even through his leathers.

“So is this your plan?” she said softly.  “To simply never speak to me again?”

He clenched his jaw, fighting the tightening in his throat again.

“What would you have me say?” he finally managed, his voice a hoarse croak. “Tell me, and I will.“

She gripped the rail so tight he could see her knuckles through her ivory skin. Gone were the tears from last night. He could tell from her hammering pulse she was angry, perhaps angrier than he’d ever seen her.

"Tell me the truth,” she said, grabbing his arm so he was forced to look at her. “Tell me what you feel for me.”

Azriel’s jaw ached from the effort of keeping the truth from tumbling out.

_I love you. I will love you to the end of darkness itself._

“You have my loyalty and my respect,” he said finally. "You know that.”

She gaved a whine of frustration, eyes growing glassy.

“That’s not what I want from you!”

“What do you want, then?” he breathed in muted pain, wishing he had the strength to brush the tear that escaped down her cheek without pulling her into his arms and never letting go.

“Your honesty!” she snarled. "You say that we are friends, but this—“ she gestured to the space between then. “This is not friendship. And neither was what happened last night. So tell me the truth, Azriel: what is it you feel for me?”

“I respect—

"You’ve already said that! That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it!”

He was choking, drowning in the ocean of snarling, foaming, broken nothing that lay between them. The distance, which had been merely an unbridgeable canal between them before last night, was now on treachorous sea not even the stupidest soul would dare cross.

“Elain, I—I’m sorry.”

She stamped her foot, more tears falling.

“Damn your sorry!“

"What is it you want from me, then, if not an apology?” he begged, panicking at the realization that she would not stop until she’d wrenched the truth from him, and his last bit of dignity with it.

"The truth!” she repeated, voice a touch pleading now. “Why did you kiss me the way you did? Why did you kiss me at all? Please, Azriel, help me to understand!”

“I—“ he began, nearly gagging on the three words he was dying to say to her. He made the mistake of glancing down at her devastating beauty, at the heart-rending warmth in her eyes. If he told her, she would try and forgive him for it, tell him it didn’t matter, and he couldn’t bear it.

Better she think him a cad than a heartsick pup. Better she hate him than pity him.

The hideous lie burned on his tongue, but he forced it out.

“You are a very desirable female, and I…I am not blind.”

She recoiled, and the horror on her face, the humiliation and pain, drove the knife home, cleaving his very being in two.

“You don’t mean that,” she breathed, bringing a hand to her chest as fresh tears welled.

“Elain,” he began, and he could see the barest glimmer of hope in her eyes that the male she’d admired, her friend, was still there. Azriel wanted to be that male for her, but he just…couldn’t. Couldn’t find the strength to spare her this pain by offering her the ugliest and most broken of all his truths: the female he loved did not—could not—love him back. “I’m sor—“

His neck snapped to the side as she hit him with all her fae strength, and his cheek burned from the pain of it. Still, he made no move to stop her as she drew her hand back and slapped him again.

“Elain—“ he pleaded, sense flooding in to drown his own selfish pain and urge him to set things right. To tell her the truth, no matter what it cost him.

It was too late. She hit him a third time, the force of it hard enough to break the skin. When he forced himself to look back at her, her face was a mess of tears, but as he instinctually reached for her, she backed away, the horror and sadness replaced with a scalding emnity that burnt him to cinders.

“You have no honor,” she snarled through strangled sobs. “And you are not the male I thought you were.”

“Elain—“

“I  _hate_ you,” she seethed, wiping at her eyes as she retreated into the darkness. “Never speak to me again.”


	7. Part VII

##  **Part VII**

The five days aboard the schooner were some of the worst Elain could remember, worse even than the months after she’d been turned High Fae. She’d thought then that the pain of losing Graysen would destroy her, but that had been a child’s love, and her despair a false bottom. The truth was that her mortal life had been hollow in many ways, and it wasn’t until she’d become fae that she’d really lived. No, that wasn’t exactly true. It wasn’t until she’d met  _Azriel_ that her new life—her true life—had begun. He’d recognized her gift when even her sisters had thought her mad, and given her a blade when everyone else would have had her stay out of the fight.

And now…

It had been painful to watch him leave her that night in the hallway, believing that she’d hurt him in a way so specific to his tortured past. However, it was nothing to the agony she’d felt standing with him on the deck and hearing the awful truth: that anything he’d felt for her was driven not by their kinship, but by his desire for her. She’d been an object of desire all her life, hailed as the most beautiful of three beautiful daughters and lusted after even when their family had fallen into ruin. It had always left her feeling hollow and cold, more a prized mare than a person.

But she’d thought Azriel, of all people, had been different. After all, it had been him who’d assured her she was no one’s prize. Was that all a lie? A way to prey on her trust until it was worn down enough for him to slip in and take his pleasure? It felt such a hideous contradiction of the male she’d come to know—come to love—but she’d seen the shame and sorrow in his eyes when she’d finally wrung the truth from him. He may not have relished in his weakness for her flesh, but he’d still let it rule him.

She hated him for it, and hated herself for being more lovely than she was lovable. More than ever, she wished she could shed her immortal skin and become someone else, someone who was worthy of more than objectification and physical desire. Because it wasn’t just Azriel; she could see the same in Lucien’s eyes, and he’d confessed almost as much the night of Nynsar.

_You would look lovely in rags, and lovelier still in nothing at all._

If she were plain, would his desire to mate her beat at him as it did? Once she might have said yes, but Azriel’s confession had thrown everything she’d thought she’d known into shadow and smoke, and now she was unsure if she had anything at all to offer besides her beauty. When it faded, Elain feared she would fade with it.

Elain sat vigil at the small window in her quarters, watching the once-distance shore of the continent loom ever larger. Despite the balmy Southern weather, she’d spent the majority of her time belowdecks, unable to face Lucien or chance running into Azriel. She’d not seen him since the night they’d fought, but she knew from the sailor’s perpetual unease that he must still be around, if only as a shadow.

Lucien had spent the first two days trying to coax her into the sunshine, but he’d quickly realized it was an exercise in futility, and had allowed her to stay in her rooms undisturbed. She wondered if he had any sense of why she was so melancholy. He really was clever as a fox, and she didn’t think the tension between her and the Shadowsinger had escaped his attention. Still, he was ever the gentleman, and he never pressed her for details he knew she wasn’t ready to share.

She didn’t turn when the door opened, simply glanced down at the book which had been sitting open on her lap for the last hour. It was on the same page it had been when she’d first sat down to read it. She badly needed the distraction, but the only books they had on a ship—besides dreary naval manuals—seemed to be romances, and that was the last thing she wanted or needed at present.

“There you are,” Lucien said genially from the doorway. “Are you hungry,  _m’elanned_?”

She turned as he set down the tray on her bed.

She studied the food, then him, before blurting, “why do you want to mate me?”

Lucien let out a startled laugh.

“I’m sorry?”

“Why do you want to mate me, Lucien? And please, don’t say it is because I’m beautiful.”

Lucien considered, eyes both natural and mechanical sweeping back and forth across her face.

“You are beautiful,” he admitted, and she felt her heart sinking into the hollow that Azriel had carved into her gut. However, before she could fall entirely into her despair, he went on. “But so was Amarantha, may she rot in pieces. So are many of our kind. Physical beauty doesn’t mean as much to the fae as you might think.”

“Is it because I’m your mate, because the Cauldron—“

Lucien gave a cool laugh.

“Oh, fuck the Cauldron,” he said, voice deliberately mild. “You should know by now I’m not the pious type.”

“Then why—“ she began, but he cut her off by kneeling at her feet and grabbing her hands.

“Because the first time you wielded a blade, you used it to kill a tyrant. Because I watched you step between a High Lord fifteen times your age and one of the deadliest Illyrians ever born, all for the sake of peace. And because at this very moment, you sail into danger to save a man who was cruel to you when he should have been kind.”

He touched her chin, urging her to look at him.

“You are lovely, Elain, but you would be just as lovely in any other form.”

She couldn’t fight down the small sob, both at the kindness in his words, and at that ache they caused in her chest. He cared for her, respected her, understood her. Why was it that Azriel could not? And why was it that she couldn’t seem to set her pain aside and be happy with Lucien, who was infinitely more deserving of her love than she was of his.

Still, she let him brush the tear that escaped down her cheek as he straightened then—after a moment’s hesitation—wrapped her arms around his middle, laying her cheek against his abdomen as several more tears fell. He was more lithe than the Illyrians, who were all built like Titans, but she could feel lean muscles clenching in his stomach and back as he returned her embrace.

“What’s bothering you,  _m’elanned_?” he breathed, running a long, slender hand down her unbound curls. “Is it Graysen?”

“I suppose,” she said, and it wasn’t wholly a lie, even if it was only the barest fraction of the truth.

“You suppose?” he echoed.

Elain looked away, cheeks flushing. She could tell despite his tone that Lucien was probing for information, trying to reassure himself that the looks that had passed between her and Azriel when they were in Spring were only figments of his territorial imagination. When she didn’t reply, Lucien offered her his hands to help her stand, and she wobbled to her feet, having yet to have gained her sea legs even in nearly a week of nautical travel.

“It will be alright,” he said when she didn’t reply. “I promise.”

He touched her cheek, and the mating bond seemed to trill at the contact, urging her to take more of him, until they were one, body and soul. However, there was something inorganic to the urge, and Elain couldn’t  wholly set aside the notion that the bond was ultimately a tool of nature designed to further their race. Above all things, it seemed to want Elain to consummate their union and grow heavy with fresh fae life, even as Elain herself shied away from the prospect.

Lucien’s eyes flicked to her lips several times, and she tried not to bleat in panic as his arms slid around her waist and he slowly leaned in to kiss her. She didn’t move, trying to will her apprehension—her mild horror—away. It had been easy enough for her to want to bed Azriel; she should want the same and more from her mate. However, just as her eyes fluttered closed, her breath coming in shortened pants, he froze, every muscle in his body stiffening.

He turned, Elain still half-cradled in his arms.

“Can we help you, wraith?”

Elain flushed at seeing Nuala, who’d only recently returned from a long sojourn back to the Night Court to report to Feyre and Rhys about their delay. Her obsidian eyes were carefully blank, and Elain didn’t have to wonder who’d taught her such impassivity.

“Land approaches, and the queen’s vassals await upon the shore. The sailors are asking for your orders, son of Autumn.”

Lucien nodded, and Elain let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding when his arm slipped from around her.

“And your master?” Lucien said, eyes sweeping the room as if Azriel may indeed be lurking in the shadows. “We’ve seen very little of him on the journey.”

Nuala’s expression didn’t change even as she made a genteel gesture of supplication.

“His business is his own,” she said in polite evasion, and Lucien clenched his teeth.

“Not while he’s in this company, it’s not. Tell me where he is.”

Nuala gave another slight incline of her head.

"Forgive me, my Lord, but I do not take orders from you.”

Lucien looked ready to bite out more, but Elain touched his arm.

“Peace, Lucien. She’s only doing as she’s been instructed.”

She could feel the muscles in his forearm coiling as he debated pushing the matter before he relaxed, and she along with him.

“The sailors are likely anxious for directions from you,” Elain said. "Go. I will meet you on the deck as soon as I’ve dressed.”

He glanced at her loose, unadorned dress, as if noticing it for the first time. She couldn’t be sure if that were true, or if it was a show meant for her benefit, a reaffirmation that she was more than the skin and bones she wore.

“I will meet you there, then. And please,” he said, touching her chin. “Eat something. You look hungry.”

She nodded, watching Nuala gracefully step aside to let him pass for before shutting the door with a soft plume of darkness.

“He is right, my lady,” she said, crossing to the chest of Elain’s things. “You should eat; you will need your strength.”

Elain only glanced at the tray before looking back at Nuala.

“Where is he?” she asked instead, hating herself for asking, and more for wanting—for  _needing_ —to know.

Nuala didn’t stop at the question, drawing a suitable gown from the chest and laying it on the bed instead.

“He has not abandoned you, My Lady,” she said finally, her voice a shade softer as she turned back to Elain.

“Has not abandoned his duty, you mean,” Elain said, feeling the bitterness bleeding into her tone as she looked out the window again.

“I do not, My Lady,” Nuala said after a beat of hesitation, meeting Elain’s gaze. “I mean you.”

Elain paused, turning back and trying to read Nuala’s face even knowing she’d never be able to through the careful mask the wraiths always wore. Elain felt her throat tighten.

“Did he tell you?” she asked. There was little point in maintaining any pretense that Nuala hadn’t seen what had been gathering between Elain and Azriel, and in that moment Elain couldn’t dredge up the pointless pride it would have taken not to betray her enduring weakness for him. It was a weakness, she was sure, Nuala could see written in every line of her pained expression.

However, in the end Nuala’s loyalty to her master seemed to win out over anything she might have felt for Elain, because she merely replied, “Tell me what, My Lady?”

“Are you his lover?” Elain pushed, both craving and dreading the answer. “It that it?“

It was a wildly impertinent question, Elain knew, but she felt desperate with despair, and her desire to understand how Azriel could treat her as he had was fraying at her restraint.

At the question, Nuala straightened to meet Elain’s gaze.

“No, My Lady. Nor do I know all his secrets. The Lord of Shadows has many, and he shares very few, even with myself and my sister.”

Elain bowed her head, humiliated that she’d been pathetic enough to ask. However, Nuala didn’t allow her to wallow in the sensation for long.

“Will you eat, My Lady?” she said, and when Elain shook her head, the tray vanished in a whiff of smoke, and Nuala was at her side, cool finger’s brushing Elain’s elbow. “Then let us get you dressed.”

She helped Elain ease out the shift she’d been wearing before guiding her into suitable undergarments and sliding a gown over her head, tightening the hidden laces at the sides. It was more modest than anything Elain had been asked to wear at the Spring court, but there was still something regal about the supple velvet bodice, and something than spoke of the ethereal power of Prythian in the sheer white sleeves that fell nearly to the the floor, the shoulders and upper arms embellished with roses and thorns wrought in shiny black thread.

When she was dressed, Nuala swept the bounty of Elain’s golden hair up into a mass atop her head, securing it with unassuming silver pins. She left Elain’s ears, neck, wrists, and fingers unadorned, and Elain was relieved. She knew she would already be the subject of gossip and scorn, especially to Graysen. She didn’t relish in making a spectacle as well.

When she was finished, Nuala draped a sleeveless cloak of onyx satin over cloak Elain’s shoulders before taking her hands.

“You are ready, My Lady.”

Elain wanted to say that she wasn’t, that the thought of seeing Graysen again was enough to make her sick, and that she hated and feared her power more than ever. However, she steeled her courage and merely nodded, taking Nuala’s hand and gliding to the deck as the Schooner brushed into the soft sand shores of Vassa’s territory, sailors splashing into the shallows as they lowered the gangplank.

Lucien was watching in his own court attire, and he smiled when he saw her.

“You look—“ he began, before seeming to remember himself and the concerns she’d voiced to him earlier. “Ready.”

“I’m not,” Elain admitted, forcing herself not to look around for the auspiciously absent member of their small party. “But all we have to do our best, I suppose.”

Lucien gave a genteel incline of his head, offering her  his arm. With her fae sight, Elain could only just spot the sentries that formed a ring at the dense huddle of trees that separated the beach from the kingdom that must have lie beyond it. Even from this distance she could feel a powerful ward radiating from the from the forest’s edge. Lucien had been right to tread carefully; Elain could sense it was no slight thing.

“Your best is better than you realize,” he assured her, patting her arm. “Shall we?”

Elain hesitated, and she could feel Lucien stiffen ever so slightly at the realization of what she was waiting for. However, before things could grow awkward, they heard a soft hiss in the sand, and turned to see Azriel folding his wings in behind him. Lucien rolled his eyes, as ever, but Azriel ignored him, burnished gaze finding Elain instead.

There was such sadness in them, such regret even now, and Elain couldn’t decide if she wanted to weep or slap him again. Neither, she decided, turning in dismissal. She was tired of being pathetic and weak, and hitting him was too painful to be worth it. Her palm had only stop throbbing from the beating she’d given him on the deck. A beating, she couldn’t help remembering, he’d taken without complaint…

Elain squared her shoulders so that her back was even more fully to Azriel before indicating Lucien lead the way. There were horses waiting where the soft sand transitioned to rock, and Lucien helped Elain get into the saddle with her heavy skirts before leaping into his own. He turned to give Azriel a pointed look before glancing at the third horse.

Azriel’s face didn’t change, but he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Illyrians don’t ride,” he said simply, and Lucien growled in irritation.

“We don’t have time for—“

“I’ll meet you at the border,” Azriel interrupted, and in a moment he’d stepped into the shadow of a cliff jutting from the rockface above before vanishing from sight.

“And to think I used to consider him the most palatable of the three of them,” Lucien muttered, urging his horse forward.

It was a short ride to the outpost, and Elain felt her unease mounting, pounding in time with the horses’ hooves. All too soon, they’d reached the perimeter, and Elain threw her legs over the saddle’s horn and jumped down. She nearly stumbled when she caught the edge of her gown with a slippered foot, but she straightened quickly, arching her shoulders back until she was drawn up to her full height.

Lucien stood at her left as they approached the sentries, and she tried not squawk in undignified surprise when she realized after a moment that Azriel had appeared at her right. She hadn’t seen or heard his approach, but he stood close enough that she could feel the warmth of him at her back as he fell into step less than half a pace behind her. She tried not to remember how right it had felt to be pressed up against that warmth, and the sense that somehow she’d found home in his arms, the way she might have once expected to find it in Lucien’s.

She shook her head, looping her hand through Lucien’s elbow to hide their trembling as they approached the dozen or so stone-faced guards all bearing Vassa’s double eagle sigil.

“My Lord,” one said in greeting to Lucien, giving a slight incline of his head. “Your arrival is well-timed. Her majesty has only just arrived herself, and eagerly awaits your company in the receiving hall.”

Elain glanced back to watch the sun make its descent behind the distant horizon, and she could feel Azriel’s cool ire as he reached a conclusion the same moment she did: Lucien hadn’t been waiting until after Nynsar; he’d timed their journey to coincide with the single day in the moon’s cycle when Vassa was permitted to return to her own court. Elain tried not to dwell on the fact that far from escaping danger, Lucien had walked them farther into it.

“You may tell her that we are just as eager,” Lucien said, tone mild even as the human soldiers began shifting on their feet and volleying anxious glances. As always, it wasn’t hard to guess why.

Azriel stood six inches taller and half again as wide as the largest of the guards, and that was to say nothing of his monstrous wings, their taloned tips gilded by the fiery crepuscular light.

In response to their unease, Lucien tossed a too-casual glance in Azriel’s direction, as if only just remembering the Illyrian was with them.

“Don’t worry about him, gentleman. He was born wearing that scowl.”

No one smiled at his glib remark.

“What  _is_  he?” One of the soldiers breathed, grip on his pike tightening.

Elain heard the rustle of Azriel’s wings behind her, and she prayed he would keep them folded. The humans looked skiddish enough as it was.

“A friend,” Lucien said. “And one to whom I would trust my life. On my honor, he is no threat to Her Majesty or this court.”

The guards exchanged more glances before the leader nodded.

“Very well,” he said finally. “But  _that_ ,” he indicated at Azriel with a stubby finger. “Is your responsibility, and yours alone.”

Lucien straightened, muscles in his arms flexing, thought for what reason Elain couldn’t even begin to guess.

“ _He_ ,” Lucien corrected archly. “Will not be a problem. You have my word.”

The guard relented by turning and indicating they follow the party up the stone path that lead to Vassa’s gargantuan castle. Elain wondered absently where her trunks had gone and where Nuala and Cerridwen were. It was likely their parentage would allow them easy passage through the kingdom’s ward, but she still shuddered to think what would happen to them if they were caught.  No, they wouldn’t be, she knew. Azriel would never allow them to stray into danger.

They crossed a ravine spanned by a stone bridge before passing under the portcullis and through into a flowering courtyard full of evening primroses and night-blooming jasmine. Flowers, Elain realized, that their queen may enjoy even when the moon had replaced the sun in the sky. The sorrow in that realization struck Elain harder than she’d imagined it would. She knew little of Vassa, but what she did was more than enough: she’d bargained with her captor not for freedom from her shackles, but for a chance to save her people.

Lucien must have sensed Elain’s distress, either through her posture or the bond, because her squeezed her hand in reassurance as two guards armed to the teeth tugged open the main doors and the warm light of a great hall fell over them.

There was something so distinctly human in the gathering, in the vassals who stood listening and laughing to the engaging young woman who sat atop a small throne, flanked by armed guards and court advisers.

She was a creature of striking beauty, her hair a mass of silken fire and her eyes a blazing blue. At their approach she leapt to her feet with the enthusiasm of a child.

“Lucien, you ginger bastard! You’re late!”

Lucien laughed and released Elain’s hand so he could open his arms to Vassa as she approached. She was a slip of a thing, nearly a head shorter than him, and the minute she was within reach, he swept her off the floor in a merry hug.

“You’re hair’s redder than mine, you scrawny little brat,” he laughed, russet eye alive with joy as she squeezed him around the neck. “And it’s good to see you, too.”

Vassa beamed up at him as he set her down and straightened, and Elain felt a churning in her gut at seeing the expression on the young queen’s face, and the easy grin on Lucien’s.  At first she thought it might be jealousy, but after a moment she realized it was guilt. Lucien already seemed happier, more at ease, in Vassa’s presence. She felt guilty to deny him such a connection, mate or no. And Vassa…it wasn’t difficult to discern how she felt about Lucien. Her blue eyes shone as if he were her very sun, and she looked on him with such intense affection Elain began to feel awkward, as if she were intruding on something private. However, after a moment Vassa seemed to remember herself, and she stepped back to give Elain a small, almost sheepish smile.

“Vassa,” Lucien said, pressing a hand to Elain’s back. “You know my—“ he cleared his throat before starting again. “May I present Elain Archeron?”

“It’s an honor, your majesty,” Elain said, remembering her manners and falling into a modest curtsy.

“The honor is mine,” Vassa said, taking Elain’s hand to pull her up. “I was a great admirer of your father’s,” she said gently. “I was sorry to hear of his passing.”

Elain bent her head, willing herself not to break down at his memory.

“Thank you,” she breathed, squeezing Vassa’s hands. “I know you meant a great deal to him, and to Lucien as well.”

At this, Vassa couldn’t hide her blush, though she attempted it with a laugh and a tart, “who cares what this sod thinks.”

Lucien only rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips as well.

“If you weren’t royalty I’d push you on your spoiled ass.”

Vassa wagged her head in mockery before her eyes slid over Elain’s shoulder and her gaze shuttered and went cold.

Lucien noticed too, and he stepped forward again, offering, “Vassa, this is the Shadowsinger, Azriel.”

Vassa’s bow lips pursed, and she resettled on her throne as she eyed Azriel shrewdly.

“The Night Court’s Spymaster, you mean. You’re lucky, Illyrian, that you keep such esteemed company. I would not usually allow such  wandering eyes into my territory.”

Azriel surprised Elain and—judging by his expression—Lucien by bowing deeply at the waist in response.

“I am honored, your majesty. I hope to replay your faith in kind.”

Vassa eyed Azriel critically, giving a swish of her hand and tracking his progress as he straightened to his full height.

“You may stay, then,” she said, glancing at Lucien again and ignoring the tide of cresting whispers from the counselors scattered around her like lilies on a grave. “As a gesture of good faith for a dear friend.”

Beside her, Elain felt Lucien relax.

“Thank you Va—“

“And,” she interrupted, giving a devilish smirk as she held up a hand to silence Lucien. “Because you’re breath-taking, and I know it will please the ladies of my court to have you in and amongst them. And me,” she added as Lucien rolled his eyes.

“Oh, don’t be jealous,” she said, eyes sparkling with wicked delight at having elicited such a plum reaction. “You know it’s true. But more of that later. I haven’t had enough wine to flirt with your solemn friend properly. Tell me, does he ever smile?”

“Not unless he’s allowed to gut someone,” Lucien said archly, and Vassa only laughed again.

“Honestly Lucien, despite your coloring, green is a less than flattering shade on you. Besides, you’re the one who brought this divine creature into my court. Don’t sulk because he’s suddenly more popular than you.“

Azriel, for his part, had begun to subtly wreath himself in shadow, as they might very well save him from Vassa’s teasing.

Vassa seemed unfazed by his discomfort, however, because she continued, resting her chin on a hand and studying him with scrutiny.

"Gods, you must be  _staggering_  without your clothes on.”

Lucien’s frown deepened, his expression somewhere between that of a disapproving sibling and a jealous lover. Elain felt shame heat her cheeks as she remembered the sleek expanse of his chest and the way his muscles had rippled under the silken skin of his back as she touched his wings. She bowed her head at the memory, hoping her blush would be misconstrued as polite embarrassment at Vassa’s saucy boldness.

“Lay off him, Vassa, or he’s get more sour than he already is,” Lucien snapped, breaking Elain’s reverie.

Vassa only laughed.

“Don’t be so petty,” she teased before turning to Elain, eyes warm. “Elain, what do you think? Does my wooing have a chance?”

At this, Lucien growled, and Elain’s stomach clenched as she fought to avoid looking in Azriel’s direction. In the end, she couldn’t overcome the temptation though, and their gazes met. His face remained impassive, but his burnished eyes seemed to plead, “ _please, save me from this woman’s torture_.”

Something about the silent plea agitated Elain, like a sliver of steel shifting in an unhealed wound. That he could pretend there was still any semblance of playful camaraderie between them hurt her in ways she’d thought herself beyond by now, and it set her tongue to flapping before she could think better of it.

“I think, your majesty, that you would have better luck drawing blood from a stone than a reaction from Azriel. He is a male of…” she paused, finding his gaze again across the distance between them. “…fastidious restraint.”

She watched as her words found their mark and the gleam in Azriel’s eyes guttered, doused by lingering shame. She expected to feel grim satisfaction in seeing the pain she’d caused him—the embarrassment—but instead she felt sick at how deep the venom-slick barb seemed to have driven in. She was still angry at Azriel for what he’d done and said, but she was above torturing him for it. At least, she’d thought so. Now, as the shadows cuccooned around him, she was left wondering if she wasn’t somehow worse than he was.

“We’ll see about that,” Vassa said, flashing an impish smile in Lucien’s direction before touching his arm in friendly affection. “So, tell me, friend, what is the reason for your visit, besides bringing me a potential new suitor?”

Lucien and Elain exchanged a glance.

“We’re looking for…Lord Graysen. Is he here?”

Vassa didn’t miss the gesture, though if she knew of Elain and Graysen’s history, she had the propriety not to show it.

She glanced to a hawkish advisor at the query, and he bent to speak quietly in her ear.

Vassa nodded and straightened, turning her azure eyes back to Lucien.

"Unfortunately no, but he’s journeying back from Neva as we speak. He should be here sometime this evening, I’m told.”

Elain’s heart leapt to her throat, and it was pounding so hard she found it difficult to breathe.

“Thank you,” Lucien said, inclining his head.

“Let me have my servants take to your rooms,” Vassa said. “I have some tedious business to wrap up here, but I will join you soon and we’ll have dinner.”

Lucien bowed his head again, and Vassa smiled.

“We will look forward to it.”

“Excellent,” she said, still beaming. With a click of her fingers, two serving girls appeared from somewhere in the throng behind the throne and approached to give Elain and Lucien a small bow, even as both of them continued to steal glances at Azriel and flush.

“My queen,” Lucien said, sweeping into a gesture of deference than had Vassa’s creamy cheeks heating slightly as well.

“I’m happy to you’re here,” she said softly, and Lucien smiled.

Seeming to sense she’d betrayed herself, Vassa gave him a theatrically arrogant wave of dismissal, and Lucien winked before they turned and followed the servants to a suite of connecting rooms in the western tower of the castle. Lucien’s usual quarters, Elain realized as she glanced around and recognized his taste in the subtle decor. The large windows looked out onto the bay beyond, and the room in the refracted beams of the full moon glittering off the water.

“Will there be anything else My Lord, My Lady?” one of the maids asked after they’d been settled.

“Nothing for now,” Lucien said. “Thank you.”

The other, who’d been staring at Azriel in half-horror, half-adoration, blurted, “And you, My Lord?”

Before Azriel could reply, Lucien cut him off.

“He’s not a lord,” he said archly. “And he’s fine as well, thank you.”

The girl—who was probably around Elain’s age and as lovely as a freshly-picked flower—went scarlet and gave a hasty bow.

“Forgive me, I—“

“There is no apology necessary,” Azriel said, giving Lucien a cool look. “It was a gracious mistake. Thank your queen for her generosity.”

The girl went an even deeper shade of red before bowing again and scuttling out, her companion on her tail. The minute they’d disappeared, Azriel turned on Lucien, cool fury rippling off him again as his shadows heaved.

“Are you out of your godsdamned mind, Vanserra?” he snarled. "You  _knew_ Vassa was going to be here?”

Lucien only rolled his eyes in response.

“Oh lay off, you overgrown bat. No one asked you.”

Azriel growled, and Elain felt a thorny spike of fear at seeing his siphons begin to blaze, their color the blue at the hottest part of a flame.

“You might have just walked directly into a trap,” he said, voice bone-chillingly cold. “And were it only you, I might be inclined to leave you to your ill-wrought fate, but now you’ve brought Elain into danger as well. And for what? To assuage your guilty conscience?”

Elain hated Azriel for trying to protect her even now, and herself for the part of her that agreed with him. She trusted Lucien, but prudence wasn’t one of his strongest suits. She understood that he’d wanted to see Vassa, perhaps even warn her of what her master may intend, but it didn’t lessen the fact that he must have just put himself in the direct path of the vision Elain had been working so hard to spare him from.

“Vassa is my friend!” Lucien retorted. “She would never harm me!”

“She might not have a choice, you thoughtless prick. You may not want to admit it for her sake, but Vassa’s power is not her own. Should her master wish it, she would waste you, and anyone else who got in her way. That’s the situation you’ve dragged your  _mate_ into.”

“Well isn’t that why you’re here? To make sure that doesn’t happen?”

“He’s right, Lucien,” Elain said, stepping up to squeeze his bicep and take his irate focus off of Azriel. “You should have told us what you were planning.”

“And if I had?” he asked, eyes a touch pleading. “Would you have agreed to come when we did?”

“You know we wouldn’t have,” Azriel snarled quietly.

“This is none of your business.”

“You made it by business when you lured us here under false pretenses.”

“That’s enough!” Elain said, her apprehension at seeing Graysen stirred to near mania by their useless bickering. “Lucien, you were wrong to keep this from us, but we’re here now, and we will make the best of it. Please, just promise me you won’t tell Vassa about the vision; it can do nothing but harm. And you,” she said, turning on Azriel. “Stop pretending like Lucien is the only one who ever makes mistakes. You’ve made plenty yourself this trip yourself.”

Azriel looked at if she’s struck him again but offered no further comment, turning to the window and flexing his wings, though in agitation or shame, Elain couldn’t tell. Elain let out a sour breath before turning back to Lucien. Her throat ached with the effort of keeping her voice steady as she said, “Promise me, Lucien. Promise me that you will keep our reason for being here between us.”

She watched his jaw work as he fought to shake off his residual anger.

“Fine,” he said. “But when this is over and Graysen is safe, I’m coming back. She’s my friend, Elain. I can’t leave her to die under this curse.”

“If you do that, then all of this will have been for nothing,” Azriel said, turning from his vigil at the window.

Lucien opened his mouth to start the argument anew when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Elain called, relieved despite everything for a distraction from their acerbic remarks.

Vassa swept into the room, a bevy of servants in tow. They carried pitchers of wine and silver trays laden with food, and Vassa gestured for them to begin preparing the meal on the nearby dining table as she surveyed Lucien’s tense expression and Azriel’s broad back as he turned to continue glowering out the window.

“Have I interrupted something?” she asked lightly. “You three seem awfully tense.”

“Forgive us, your majesty,” Elain said. “It’s been a long journey.”

“Vassa, please,” the young queen corrected. “And I admit I was somewhat…surprised when Lucien said he was bringing you here. Not that you aren’t always welcome in my court, of course, but I would think after everything that’s happened, your sisters would be eager to have you close.”

Elain fought not to bristle. It seemed news of her fragility had reached even these far shores.

“I’m my own person. They don’t dictate my comings and goings.”

“Of course,” Vassa said, flushing a little. It was hard to remember, give her seductive bravura, that she was still younger than Elain, a woman only recently out of adolescence. “Forgive me, that came out wrong.”

“It’s understandable,’ Lucien said, trying to smooth over the tension. “Feyre and Nesta are both…forces of nature. Shall we eat?”

Vassar shot him a grateful smile, though it grew slightly wary when she glanced in Azriel’s direction. Elain found, to her shame, that she didn’t have to courage to look at him herself and see whatever it was in his face that had Vassa paling. Instead, she took a proffered seat and accepted a goblet from a servant, hoping wine might help to soothe her sizzling nerves. She hated Azriel for still trying to pretend as if he cared for her feelings after how he’d treated her, and hated herself for being so weak that both males felt they needed to fight her battles for her.

They all sat in silence as the servants set out dishes of duck roasted in rosemary and served with sweet jam, a tureen of Beef Stew with Fennel, red wine and Honey, lavender dumplings, carrots seasoned with dill, maple beets, and raspberry and pistachio mousse cake for dessert. Vassa waited for the wine to be poured before giving her servants a polite dismissal.

“Shall we?” she offered, and they filled their plates in relative silence, the only sound the scrape of silver on porcelain as they began to eat.

Elain knew she would have to eat some of everything if she wanted to avoid offending Vassa’s hospitality, not to mention Lucien and Azriel’s concerned glances, but her stomach was in knots, and every bite a struggle.

“So,” Vassa said finally, setting her own fork down and taking a long sip of wine. “Am I allowed to ask what it is you wish to speak to Lord Graysen about?”

Elain could feel the males’ eyes on her, and she fought not stiffen or flush as she replied in an even tone, “As I’m sure you know, your majesty, Lord Graysen and I have—a history, and I find now that the war has ended that there is still business between us.”

Vassals keen gaze flicked between Lucien and Elain as she gave a polite nod.

“I know that you two were once—close,” she admitted, still trying to gauge what Elain had politely refused to divulge. “And he is at your disposal. Though I hope you’re not planning on dragging him back to Faerie and put him on trial for his folly. I know he’s…hot-headed, but he’s still young, and one of my best emissaries.”

Even without looking at him, Elain could feel Lucien straining in his seat, trying to force down the urge to tell Vassa that if all went as they planned, Graysen would be coming with them for the foreseeable future. Elain reached over to squeeze his hand with enough pressure to get his attention and remind him of his promise.

“We mean him no harm,” Elain assured Vassa. “I promise.”

Vassa nodded, and Elain could tell she was considering pushing for more.  However, she seemed to sense she shouldn’t, because she turned to Azriel, who sat to her right, instead.

“Is it uncomfortable,” she asked. “Sitting in that chair with your wings?”

He shifted slightly, and Elain was willing to bet he was more uncomfortable with being the object of Vassa’s attention again.

“I can manage, thank you, your majesty.”

“Vassa, please, ” Vassa corrected. “And what’s it like to fly? As an Illyrian, I mean. Obviously I am no stranger to flight myself.”

She gave a forced laugh, and Elain didn’t miss the sadness on Lucien’s face as Vassa tried to brush off the admittance. He rarely spoke of it to Elain, but she knew that he and Feyre had been working to try and free Vassa from her wretched imprisonment. It made Elain’s throat ache to see how little progress they’d made reflected in Lucien’s stricken expression.

She knew Vassa had probably seen the look as well, or at least sensed it, but she paid Lucien no heed as she continue to study Azriel.

“It’s very freeing,” Azriel admitted with a polite incline of his head, and Vassa smiled.

“And bloody useful in battle, I must say. I watched the aerial legion cut through Hybern’s flank like a hot knife through butter. Their commander was especially impressive. Friend of yours?”

“More like a brother.”

“Yes,” Vassa said, her scrutiny growing more intense. “You do rather look alike. It’s the eyes, I think. And the muscles.”

At this, Azriel dropped said eyes to his plate under the auspice of eating more of his stew, and Vassa chuckled before looking to Elain instead.

“I’m told he’s rather fond of your sister, the Lord Commander,” she said lightly, and Elain bit back a groan.

She ignored a furtive glance from Azriel that indicated that, like her, he was remembering their conversation about just how close Cassian and Nesta had become. Still, as quietly affectionate as they’d grown in private, it vexed Elain that the rumors about Nesta and Cassian continued to spread across Prythian and beyond. Was nothing in their court a secret?

“A vicious rumor and nothing more, I’m afraid. Cassian’s a bit wild for Nesta’s tastes.”

“A pity for him,” Vassa laughed. “She’s a rare beauty. And that sharp tongue! Truly a woman after my own heart.”

At this Elain smiled, warmed to hear that someone other than she and Feyre understood what a treasure Nesta was underneath all the smolder and ice.

“Bet she’s no great admirer of yours, though,” Vassa teased, flashing Lucien a wink.

Lucien only rolled his eyes, no doubt biting back a smart retort for Elain’s sake.

“I’ve never met a male that Nesta Archeron was fond of,” Lucien said finally. “So I will consider myself, if not good company, at least no worse off than the average male.”

“I agree that it will take someone special indeed to be worthy of someone like her,” Vassa said, drinking more wine.

By this point the meal was winding down, and as if on cue, servants began filing in and clearing their plates. Elain had done her best to push her food around in a way that made it look as if she’d eaten her fair share, though she doubted she was fooling any of them, even if none of them ventured to comment on it.

One of the last servants bent to speak in Vassa’s ear, and she nodded before dismissing them.

“Lord Graysen has returned. Shall we pay him a visit?”

Elain felt her stomach hollow out, her thoughts tumbling over themselves like scree in a landslide. What would she say to him, now that she was here? She’d thought she knew, but now that their meeting was fully real, she found her mind a tangle. Graysen would not be expecting her, and she doubted he would take the surprise well, especially considering she had two fae males in tow.  _I will not cry_ , she promised herself, even as her throat burned.  _I will be strong._ If Feyre could face Tamlin, Elain could face Graysen with the same courage. She was just as much Archeron as her sisters, even if no one ever seemed to remember it.

Vassa stood, glancing at Lucien for a moment as if wondering if he’d offer her arm. However, she seemed to realize herself and dismiss the notion immediately, because she swept in front the lead the way with the servant, the satin of her gown hissing softly as it slithering across the stone behind her.

The journey to Graysen’s chambers was both torturously long and distressingly short, and Elain found she was having trouble breathing normally. Lucien hadn’t seemed to notice as he’d fallen in step with Vassa a few paces ahead, but Azriel did.

“Are you alright?” he murmured in a low tone, touching just the tips of his fingers on her low back.

“I’m fine,” she said, brushing out of his touch. “But even if I were not, you were the last person from whom I would seek solace.”

He flinched from the force of her rebuke, and it was gesture so human and fragile she wouldn’t have even believed him capable of it. Seeing the pain in his eyes sent a pang through her, but she ignored it as he bowed his head.

“Forgive me,” he breathed, avoiding looking directly at her. “I should not have—“

“No,” she agreed, hating the sorrow that crept into her tone. “You should not have.”

By this time they’d reached an unremarkable oak door. The servant knocked before announcing, “Her Majesty, the queen.”

“It’s open, Your Majesty,” a familiar voice echoed, sending a chill snaking down Elain’s spine before she could fend it off. However, not willing to let it dominate her, she straightened her back and took a deep breath.

Vassa turned to give her a reassuring smile before nodding at the servant to open the door.

“You have visitors, Lord Graysen,” Vassa said, standing at the door but not crossing the threshold. Instead she gestured for Elain to go in, Lucien and Azriel behind her.

Graysen, who’d been shrugging into a clean tunic, turned…and froze.

“Elain,” he said, eyes scanning her face in disbelief before flicking over her shoulder and going cold.

“Hello, Graysen,” she said, re-memorizing his face. It was odd, the perspective time lent. She’d thought him the most handsome man in the world when they’d met, but now she found she was touched only by benign female appreciate for his beauty. He would always be good-looking, but next to her fae companions he looked almost plain by comparison.

“I’ll leave you to talk,” Vassa said, raising her eyebrows at Lucien in a gesture meant to convey good luck. “And Lord Graysen? Elain is a guest in my home. I trust you will treat her with all the respect owed to her as such.”

Graysen nodded before seeming to remember himself and bowing, and Vassa let the door swing shut. When they were alone, Graysen’s eyes dropped to the floor, and Elain watched him as he fought to control his mounting ire. When he finally composed himself enough to look at her, his face was the very portrait of disgust.

“You have some nerve, coming here,” he said finally, his eyes once again flicking over her shoulder. “And in this company, no less.”

“I need to speak with you,” Elain said, daring a step forward.

“I have  _nothing_ to say to you,” he spit. “My father was right about you; you’re nothing but an inconstant whor—“

One second, Azriel was behind Elain, still as a statue. The next, he had Graysen by the front of his tunic.

Lucien reacted at once, though whether it was to stop Azriel or help him, Elain couldn’t be sure. However, Azriel threw a blind hand behind him, and a shield of blue adamant formed around him and Graysen as he hauled the latter off his feet and slammed him against the wall.

When Azriel spoke, his voice was like perfumed smoke, or the sweet aroma of burning belladonna: lovely, but lethal.

“Listen carefully,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Because I will say this only once: Elain is no longer the woman you might once have had the privilege of marrying, were you born even a fraction less stupid and short-sighted. She’s now the savior of these lands, and one of those directly responsible for keeping your people out of chains.”

Azriel lip curled back slightly to reveal his gleaming white teeth, a jaguar in human skin.

“So hear me when I say that you will speak to her with respect she has earned, and that if you do not, I will stab you in the belly and carve upwards until I can cut off your tongue from the inside. Do we understand each other?”

Graysen didn’t reply, his face paler than sour milk as he fought to keep his lip from trembling. Honestly, Elain thought it a miracle that he hadn’t wet himself.

“Do we,” Azriel repeated in a chilling purr. “Understand each other?”

“Yes,” Graysen bit out.

Azriel didn’t reply, simply let go, allowing Graysen to fall back to his feet like a marionette whose strings had been cut. The blue dome around them faded as well, and seeming to anticipate what Elain would say to him, Azriel strode from the room without another word.

Elain glanced fretfully back to Graysen, who seemed to have recovered his pride with a haste only a smug and cocksure young man would have had the bollocks to muster. He stood fixing his mussed hair and straightening his tunic, all while scowling. Lucien, who’d watched Azriel storm out in bemusement, turned back to give Graysen a dry look.

“I wouldn’t take it personally,” he said. “He’s like that with everyone.”

“Go to Hell,” Graysen snarled, eyes alight.

Elain put a hand on Lucien’s arm, even as he reached for the dagger at his waist.

“Can you give us a moment?” she asked, knowing that his fae instincts were likely roaring at him to kill the male who’d once been engaged to his mate, and who’d just offered her such insult.

However, he conquered them by giving a tight-lipped smile.

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll be in the hall if need me.”

She flashed him a quick smile in return.

“Thank you.”

When he’d gone, she turned back to Graysen, who was giving her a look so odious and cold that she had to fight not to shiver. But she wouldn’t cower or show weakness. She’s thrown herself on his mercy once, and all she’d received in exchange for her pleas was a cold knife in the gut.

“So,” he began, still slightly out of breathing from Azriel’s tight grip. “It seems you’ll marry the Vanserra brute after all.”

She squared her shoulders, latently wishing that Nesta were here to shred Graysen on her deadly wit. No, she told herself. She could do this on her own.

“Who I mate is none of your concern,” she said in an even a tone as she could muster.

“Mate,” he repeated in disgust. “You sound like one of them.“

“I am one of them,” she pointed out. “You were quick to remind me of that the last time we saw each other.”

“I haven’t forgotten. Still, it is a pity that someone as lovely as you has been reduced to a rutting beast.”

Elain grit her teeth, forcing her eyes to remain dry.

“Don’t make me wield my Illyrian against you. He spoke true; he would cut out your heart or make a gift of your tongue, should I ask it.”

“Yes, he seems a very loyal dog,” Graysen said, the contempt rising in his tone. Though she noted his voice was tinged with fear as well.

She must have stiffened at the insult, because his bitter smile grew.

“Not  _just_  Vanserra, then. Interesting.”

She pressed on before her cheeks could heat and betray her.

“I didn’t come here to suffer your abuse, Graysen.”

“Then why have you come?”

“To save your life. You are in danger here, and despite everything that’s passed between us, I would never forgive myself if something were to happen to you.”

He scoffed.

“How can you expect me to believe that?”

She swallowed, bracing for the impact of what she was about to say next.

“I’ve seen it in a vision.”

His face went white with fury.

“So not just a beast, then. A witch, too!”

“I’m not a witch!” she said, hating the tears in her eyes. “And you may hate me and what I’ve become and what I can do, but it doesn’t change the fact I’m trying to save you! Please, won’t you let me, this one last time?”

* * *

Azriel stood with arms crossed at the door, actively ignoring Lucien as he stared.

“What?” he demanded finally, still trying to get a better grasp on his fury. The way the human had looked at Elain—it had ignited the fresh, white-hot fury in Azriel’s chest that he’d yet to fully master.

“You overstep yourself,” Lucien said, voice cold and flat. “It’s not for you to speak for her.”

“I speak for myself,” Azriel corrected, flexing his left hand to keep it from Truth-teller’s hilt. “Don’t presume to tell me my business again.”

Rather predictably, Lucien ignored the warning and continued to press.

“I see the way you look at her.”

At this, Azriel turned on him, eyes blazing.

“She is my friend,” he said. “And yourmate, however unworthy of the title you may be.”

Lucien let out a low growl.

“You know nothing about me, Illyrian.”

Azriel bared his teeth, wings flexing in challenge.

“I know what side of the room you stood on the day Hybern forced Elain into that cauldron,” he snarled. “And I know that you let my High Lady, my friend, suffer without doing a damn thing to stop her.”

“That was complicat—“

“No,” Azriel interrupted, feeling unsure how much long he could last before his control snapped. “It was very, very simple. If had been Rhys who locked Feyre up, I would have gotten her out, no matter the cost. The truth of it is that you knew what Tamlin’s rules were doing to her, and you still did less than nothing to help her.”

“Feyre and I have made our peace,” Lucien said. “And hers was the only forgiveness that mattered. Besides, you have no right to judge me. You’re no champion of females yourself.”

Azriel felt his siphons flare.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Morrigan doesn’t want you, she never has, and yet you’ve spent centuries slathering after her like you were her dog. And now that you’ve finally realized she’s a lost cause, you’ve set you insidious sights on  _my_  mate.”

“Elain is not something you can claim, you spoiled little prick.”

Lucien shook his head in disgust.

“Don’t push this back on me, Illyrian. Even if Elain weren’t my mate, I would keep her as far from you as I could manage. You are  _spoiled goods_. Your brothers may tolerate you, but no female ever will.”

Azriel said nothing, only turned on his heel and vanished into the nearest shadow. The truth in Lucien’s words had cut him to the very quick, and he knew if he stayed even one more second, he would have lost himself completely and beaten Lucien’s head against the stone until his brain’s blood stained the floor. He tried to focus on the shadows, on their cool touch, as he made his way back to his own room, even as he ignored what they whispered in his ear.

_The Lordling is right. Elain deserves better, just as Mor did. She is still wroth with you. Keep your distance, for her sake._

Azriel burst into his own chambers like a male possessed, his shadows a whirling tempest around him as he fought once again to wrestle them to heel. He was still reeling from Lucien cruel (if true) assessment, and of Elain’s sharp rebuke when he’d touched her earlier. How could he ever had been so stupid to think there could be something between them? She reviled him, perhaps even feared him the way others always had. She might have shown him kindness once, before he’d ruined everything, but now he’d lost even that.

The shadows roiled.

_She still kissed you that night_ , they hissed in his ear.  _Her scent shifted at your touch._

Azriel gave a pained whine, driving his hands into his hair as he tried to choke off the shadows’ cruel jibes. It wasn’t true, he reminded himself. When he lost control like this, the shadows often grew unruly and malevolent, seeking to sow discord where they could. He still couldn’t understand why Elain had kissed her the way she had that night, but seeing Graysen cause her such pain and knowing he could not be there to ease it, even as a friend, ached in a way he couldn’t live with.

Some part of him still tried to argue that he ought to stay away, that he’d chosen his path when he’d lied to her and he should stay on it, even as it led him farther and farther away from her. But knowing the danger that now lay ahead of them, danger Lucien had wrought with his recklessness, Azriel knew he had to put things right with Elain. It was unlikely he’d ever be able to fully win her trust again, but perhaps in several decades, or  century even, they could find their way back to friendship. Either way, he had to go to her, to confess himself and fall on whatever mercy she made have left to offer him.

He took a deep breath, letting the shadows settle over his shoulders like a weighted cloak before making his way to her chamber, just down the corridor from his. He wasn’t sure what words he would offer her, but he promised himself that whatever they were, they would be the truth. At least that way, he faced whatever came next with a clearer conscience.

He rounded the corner that separated them and froze, melting into the nearest shadow and watching in dismay as Lucien leaned in, pressing Elain to the door and kissing her as if she were the very air he needed to breathe. She remained frozen for a moment, and Azriel’s heart froze with her, ceasing to beat as he waited to see how she would react. However, after a moment’s hesitation she relaxed into Lucien’s touch and kissed him back, and Azriel felt his suspended heart drop and shatter like brittle glass as he wrapped himself in deeper darkness and vanished from sight.

 


	8. Part VIII

##    Tender Jar: An Elriel Experiment          

                    “Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness, and the infinite tenderness shattered you like ajar”

 -Pablo Neruda

 **Synopsis:** Six months after the war, Elain is still mourning all that the cauldron took from her, and it’s only Azriel she trusts not to judge her for her brokenness. However, when she has a vision concerning both Lucien and Graysen, she steals her courage and braves first the Spring Court and then the Mortal World, Azriel at her side. When lines are drawn and Elain is pushed to her emotional limit, she must decide whether she will let her past shatter her or give in to the desires of her tender heart. ****

 **Warnings:** Elriel with brief Elucien.  **NSFW.** Contains some graphic depictions of sex and foul language, and minor violence.

* * *

##                                       Previously, on Tender Jar…

_“I didn’t come here to suffer your abuse, Graysen.”_

_“Then why have you come?”_

_“To save your life. Please, won’t you let me help you, this one last time?”_

* * *

Elain waited with clammy hands and a hammering heart as Graysen considered her proposal. She took refuge in the understanding that if he were going to outright refuse, he would have done it already, and the fact he hadn’t was a good sign.

Still, his sneer was still nearly unendurable, and both her throat and eyes ached from fighting her natural tendency to cry. She’d promised herself after what had happened with Azriel that she wouldn’t be weak in that way. It wasn’t an promise she intended to break, least of all for Graysen.

“Well?” she prompted finally, not sure how much longer she could bear to stand under his cold scrutiny. “What is your answer? Will you come with us?”

“You mean Vanserra is coming as well?”

At this his eyes lit up slightly, though she couldn’t for the life of her understand why. This was the part she’d been dreading to discuss. The jibes he’d already made about Lucien and Azriel had nearly broken what little control she still possessed; she wasn’t sure she was strong enough to weather many more.

“Of course. He’s—“

Graysen expression deadened.

“Your  _mate_. Yes, I know; I hardly need reminding.”

Elain took a steadying breath, knowing that Graysen would gleefully take any ground she gave him on the matter.

“I was going to say Emissary to the Spring Court. It’s likely we’ll have to pass through Spring again, and I doubt we would be welcome there without him present.”

“Is that were you intend to keep me prisoner?”

“You won’t  _be_  a prisoner!” Elain bit out, her composure fraying. “You’ll be a guest in my sister’s territory until Azriel can figure out exactly what kind of danger you’re in.”

“The Night Court? That’s hundreds of miles to the North! You expect me to just spend the foreseeable following you and your filthy fae harem though enemy lands?”

“The fae are not your enemies,” Elain said, choosing to ignore the jape about Lucien and Azriel, which had had struck closer to the truth that she was comfortable admitting. “And we aren’t going to make the journey on foot. We’ll winnow to checkpoints.”

Graysen considered.

“What will be the route?”

Elain let out a frustrated whine.

“What does it matter? Either you accept my offer or you don’t. The particulars are irrelevant.”

“Of course they matter,” he snapped, the bite in his voice enough to make her flinch. “Unless I’m satisfied with what you tell me, I’m not going with you.”

“I don’t know why!” she countered. “You’ve never even been to Prythian.”

However, when he answered her retort with a dead-eyed stare, she raised her hands in a gesture of defeat.

“We arrived by sea. I assumed we will journey back the same way, then winnow from Spring into Summer.”

“Summer? Why Summer?”

She narrowed her eyes. She couldn’t say exactly why, but his probative questions were churning up an uneasy dread in her gut.

“Because our only choices are Summer and Autumn, and Lucien’s relationship with Beron is—strained. Safer for us to winnow to Tamlin’s palace and cut a diagonal path to the Summer border.”

Graysen considered this, his expression still unpleasantly cool.

“Listen to you, playing at politics and war.”

She rolled her eyes, hoping he couldn’t see she’d done it to keep the frustrated tears at bay. It didn’t matter; when she turned back to look at him, she felt one slide down her cheek.

“Please, Graysen,” she said, swiping furiously at the tear. “Just—let us help you. After that, you never have to see me again if you don’t wish.”

Graysen clenched his jaw, but his gaze softened at what she was sure was her stricken expression.

“Please,” she repeated, not sure she loved or hated seeing the shadow of the man she’d almost married in his blue eyes.

They skated back and forth across her face several times, and for a terrifying second as she watched him raise a hand, she feared he would try and brush the wetness from her cheeks.

However, her apprehension must have showed, because after a moment he let his hand drop, his expression deadening again.

“Fine,” he said. “When do we leave?”

“Before first light, I’d imagine,” she said. If it was fire they were running from, they would have to steal away before Vassa was turned by daybreak.

“Fine,” he said again, turning away from her in obvious dismissal. “I’ll be ready.”

“I’ll come and fetch you when it’s ti—“

“No,” he interrupted, teeth slightly bared. “Send one of the others. I cannot bear to see any more of you this evening.”

She had let her guard slip in the course of their conversation, and Elain felt the cruel jibe as it struck her in the chest, sure as any physical blow. Instinctual tears crawled up her throat, and it was an effort to choke them down.

“Fine,” she echoed, turning towards the door before pausing with her fingers on the handle.

Despite the shards of their broken future still lying between them, some part of Elain had hoped they could have—

She shook her head. Could have what: Mended things? Found a way to be together? It was terrifying to admit, but she realized now that she no longer pined for that future. She’d let that hope go when she’d taken off her engagement ring, and though she knew she would be mourning what she’d lost this trip for some time, for the first time since she turned fae, Graysen would not figure into that sorrow.

She slipped from the room without another word, relaxing when she saw Lucien standing in the hall waiting for her. She felt a sharp spike of disappointment at the realization he was alone, but she willed it not to show in her face or scent.

“And?” he said mildly, offering her an arm to escort her back to her own chambers.

She forced a light laugh.

“As if you couldn’t hear every word we said to each other,” she teased, though she couldn’t quite manage to maintain the levity in her voice as she said it.

It hardly mattered; Lucien’s expression soured at her words, and she felt the muscles in his arms coiling in tense anticipation.

“It took everything in me not to break down the door and throttle him for the way he spoke to you,” he admitted.

“I’m grateful you didn’t. I don’t think his pride could have tolerated any more lessons in humility.”

She’d meant it as a joke, but it did little to brighten Lucien’s expression.

“Azriel had no right to do that,” Lucien said, face grim to the very brink of a sneer.

“Because it was my battle to fight?”

“Because if anyone was going to teach that prick a lesson for disrespecting you, it should have been me.”

She stiffened at this insinuated possession in his tone, and he let out a penitant sigh, squeezing her arm gently.

“Forgive me, I—“ He sighed. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just—I don’t like the liberties he seeks to take with you.”

Elain grappled with the words to assure Lucien that wasn’t why Azriel had done it, but whatever she might had said was drowned by the memory of Azriel’s body moving against hers, and his whispered admission the following day.

_You are a very desirable female, and I…I am not blind._

“I can’t control Azriel’s behavior, nor do I wish to. If you want me to censure him for what happened, I will, but—“

“No,” Lucien said quickly, scrubbing a hand down his face as they reached her door. “Forgive me, Elain. Sometimes the bond makes me not quite myself. I never meant to suggest there anything untoward going on. I just—“

He paused, turning to face her fully.

“I know,” she assured him, and he gave a soft smile.

She often failed to appreciate just how beautiful he was, but in the low light, it was impossible to ignore. His full lips parted slightly as he studied her in turn, his throat working in a gesture of obvious restraint.

“Can I,” he began before clearing his throat and beginning again. “Elain, may I kiss you?”

Elain felt that small, inorganic piece of her trill to life at his request, beating under her skin like a second pulse. It thrummed with such intensity that she felt a heady nausea sweep over her. However, after a second of consideration she decided to appease it, just this once; to finally explore what it would be like to give herself wholly to its machinations.

Meekly, she nodded, and Lucien took both her hands in his as he leaned in, pressing her against the door as he pressed his mouth to hers. His lips were soft and warm as he applied slightly more pressure, and she made a soft noise into his mouth. Taking it as invitation, Lucien let his tongue brush hers, his hips pressing slightly closer as he guided one of her small hands over his hammering heart. The other she let slide into his auburn hair.

It was perhaps not the natural thing that kissing Azriel had been, nor did it set her on fire the same way, but their bond seemed to glow at the contact, urging her deeper into a beckoning beyond that, if she entered, she recognized might never release her again.

Hesitant to tip into the temptation of it, she pulled away slightly, her eyes fluttering open and snagging on a patch of particular darkness swirling near the end of the corridor. To anyone else it might have seemed a mere shadow, but Elain knew at once what it was, and she stiffened, the hand in Lucien’s silken hair falling lax to her side.

Lucien studied her face with concern, though he made no further move to touch her, and instead pulled back slightly.

“What is it?” he breathed, eyes still tracing her lips.

“Nothing,” she lied, fighting not to remember how at home she’d been in that very darkness. “It’s just been a long evening, is all.”

He nodded, brushing his knuckles down her cheek. The bond purred contentedly at the contact, even as Elain herself fought not to gently pull his hand away.

“Why don’t you rest?” Lucien suggested. “I will come and fetch you when it’s time.”

She nodded, and he brushed a hand down her hair.

“Were are you going?” she asked, reading the answer in his soft, slightly sad smile before he gave it.

“I want to speak to Vassa before we leave.”

She bit her lip.

“Lucien, you promised—“

“I know,” he said. “But she’s my friend; I just want to make sure she’s alright.”

Elain’s expression must have betrayed her unease, because Lucien let out a sigh.

“I won’t tell her,” he said, brushing a knuckle down her cheek. “You have my word.”

She nodded again, and—surprised—she couldn’t help but stiffen when he bent to kiss her farewell. Her scent must have changed, or Lucien noticed her discomfort, because at the last minute he turned to brush his lips to her cheek instead.

“Goodnight,  _m’elanned_. Rest well.”

She nodded, unable to keep herself from glancing over his shoulder for the tell-tale darkness before retreating into her room and closing the door. To her surprise, neither Nuala nor Cerridwen were there to greet her. Too drained to go through her ablutions alone, Elain simply extinguished the lamp at her bedside and lay down.

Sleep came easily, but it was far from restful. She fell headfirst into a nightmare where she was once again in that camp in Hybern, having been lured there by Graysen’s voice. She sat alone, bound and shivering, as she tormented herself for her foolishness, or her all-consuming desire to win the forgiveness he never intended to give her.

She felt the darkness, the desperation, closing in as she sat and waited for her fate to manifest. Would they torture her? Kill her? Give her to one of the soldiers for entertainment? She’d heard two guards discussing it outside the tent in sickeningly detail, and the thought had her stomach twisting in agonizingly knots.

Even in her dream she felt her heart begin to race as she heard soft footsteps, and she tensed as two figures appeared silhouetted by the fae lamp burning in the small antechamber. She made to scream into her gag, but as she looked again, she noted the outline of great wings, and a second later Feyre and Azriel were there, the latter bending to gently remove the strip of cloth they’d shoved into her mouth.

“Are you hurt?” he murmured, eyes skidding back and forth across her face in concern.

Elain would never forget how gentle he’d been with her that day, or how queer that tenderness had seemed against the cold rage he hadn’t been able to entirely hide.

She could still smell his cool scent as it cascaded over her, as he slung her bound hands around his neck and she knew she was safe.

She twisted in her sleep, and suddenly the memory faded, and she was with Azriel in the sky. Somehow she seemed to sense that they’d shifted into the present. She could see the pain and shame in his eyes, expression haunted and sad the same way it had been when she brushed off his touch earlier.

“Elain,” he began, “I—“

Then he screamed, a sound of shredding agony and fear as a dagger, which had appeared from nowhere, slammed into his chest. He roared again as his wings went slack, and suddenly they were tumbling down, down, down…

Elain bolted up, her cheeks slick with tears as her heart hammered. A vision. That had been a vision, she was sure of it. And Azriel…

She leapt from bed, not stopping to wonder at the mess she must have looked as she scrambled from the room and all but flew to Azriel’s door, banging on it like a fiend possessed by the Dark God.

He answered a moment later, his expression melting from confusion to concern as he took her in.

“Elain, what—“

“You need to go back to Velaris,” she said in greeting, brushing past him into the room as she began to pace, clenching and unclenching her hands to keep herself distracted, keep herself from falling apart. “Right now.”

His brows pulled together in a soft frown as he watched her.

“I know you’re still angry with me, but—“

“Of course I am!” she said, tears in her eyes now. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t still—“

She broke off, not wanting to admit the truth she couldn’t shake, no matter how many times she told herself she hated him.

"Azriel,” she began again, voice a touch pleading now. “You’re in great danger. I’ve seen it. Please, you have to leave.”

His frown deepened, and before she could react, he was before her, gripping her shoulders and staring into her eyes, as if trying to read her fear, to make sense of it.

“Tell me exactly what you saw in the vision.”

She let out a trembling breath, savagely fighting the urge to press into his warmth and assure herself he was truly safe.

“You were stabbed,” she said. “Straight through the chest. You—you fell out of the sky.”

“What makes you so sure it was me you saw?”

“Do you think I would make that something like that up?” she demanded, feeling hurt seeping into her terror and coalescing into something more painful than either.

He tried to tighten his grip on her shoulders in a reassuring gesture, but she snarled and tugged his hands away.

“Why don’t you believe me?”

He paused, and she watched a shadow cross his face. Some part of her knew that he wasn’t questioning her sanity, only doing what he’d been trained to do as a spy: verify the information he was being given. It seemed to pain him that she thought the opposite.

"If you were sure it was a vision,” he said finally. “Of course I believe you. It’s just that your visions are not usually so direct.”

“What are you saying?” Elain said, feeling embarrassed now, too.

She knew exactly what he was saying, and hated herself for it. He paused, as if sensing he had to proceed with care.

“Could it possibly have been a nightmare? A—projection of your subconscious fears?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she tried to snap, but it came out a hoarse croak.

His expression didn’t change at the admonishment, but she could tell by the way his wings shifted behind him that her comment had found its mark.

She considered before biting her lip.

“I know what I saw,” she said, the fear sliding back in and turning her blood to cold sludge. “And it was real.”

She bowed her head and her vision blurred, and though she heard his wings moving restlessly again, Azriel remained where he was.

“I believe you.”

She looked up, relieved.

“Then you’ll go back to Velaris?”

She watched the muscles in his jaw work as he studied her expression, seeming to steel himself for her next reaction.

“Elain, I can’t.”

Frantic now to the point of madness, she charged him.

“Why the rutting hell not?”

It wasn’t like her to use such coarse language, but she couldn’t help it, any more than she could help the traitorously weak tears that dampened her cheeks.

“I made a promise to Rhys and your sister that I wouldn’t—“

“Oh  _hang_  your promise!” she snarled beating his chest with her fist. “Azriel, you could die if you stay!”

“I know,” he said gently, grabbing her wrists to keep her from hitting him. His eyes were molten amber, veins of emerald running through them like tiger stripes. The kindness in them nearly broke her. “But I will never abandon you so long as you’re in danger. Never.”

Elain thought again of the moment she’d seen him in that tent in Hybern, and the relief at knowing she was not so alone as she’d feared. That she never had been.

She glanced down and back up at him, voice trembling as she said, “And I will never forgive myself if something happened to you because of me.”

He gave a soft, sad smile, brushing a tear away with his knuckle.

“To die for you would not be so terrible a thing.”

She pushed his hand away in pained frustration, but it hovered, still less than a breath from her cheek.

“You do not have my leave to die,” she said, reaching blindly up to tangle her fingers with his outstretched ones. “Do you hear me, Shadowsinger?”

He tensed when she brushed her cheek against the rough back of his hand, but he didn’t pull it away.

“Yes, my lady,” he said quietly, eyes dancing across her face,

“And you will take every precaution tomorrow, even if it slows our progress or frustrates the others.”

“Elain—“

She squeezed his fingers in warning, voice growing hard.

“Promise me, Azriel.”

He swallowed before nodding.

“You have my word.”

“I will hold you to it,” she said, finally letting her arm go lax, his hand sliding from where she’d pressed it to her cheek.

Still, she didn’t let go of his hand immediately, allowing herself this one final weakness, this one final moment to pretend they could have been something more.

“Elain,” he breathed, fingers gently detangling from hers. “There is something I have to confess to you. That night in Spring—“

She jerked back, feeling as if she’d been doused in cold water. How could she have forgotten, for even one small moment, what he had done to her?

“No,” she said. “You made yourself perfectly clear on the ship. I have no desire to relive it.”

He should his head.

“You don’t understand. I—“

“No!” she repeated, retreating another step towards the door. “I may not want you to die, but that does not mean I still care for you. I do not.”

It was a lie, and utter lie, and she couldn’t decide if she was relieved or dismayed to see that he believed her. He bowed his head, shadows coming around him as if they might swallow him whole.

“I understand. Forgive me, my lady.”

Something in his tone struck her, and she found herself tempted to hear what he seemed so desperate to say to her. No, she realized after a moment, shaking her head. He would simply offer more excuses, more tepid apologies that only ever seemed to make her feel worse.

Giving a final sad shake of her head, she strode back to her own chambers, slamming the door before collapsing against it and heaving a shuddering sigh. One more day, she told herself, and she would be free from this nightmare for a good, long while.

She’d never asked Rhysand for anything, even in those weeks after she’d been turned, but she would ask him now—beg him, even—to send Azriel far away from the Night Court.

She wouldn’t have to beg though, she realized after a minute. In fact, she wouldn’t even have to ask Rhys; she knew that Azriel would impose a self-exile far harsher than any his friend could ever think to give him.

She wasn’t surprised at the stab of pain this realization caused. Azriel had wronged her, there was no denying it, but there was also no denying that she still hoped they would someday be able to go back to being friends.

Their encounter just now had showed her just how much she still desired him, but that she thought she could possibly abolish with time, perhaps after she and Lucien mated and she was granted a spell to recover. But she knew that she would never stop missing the friend she’d found in Azriel, and now, in the face of her latest vision and whatever awaited them tomorrow, she could admit that it was his friendship more than anything she didn’t want to lose.

A glance out the window told her it was nearly dawn, and she look down at her rumpled gown before calling, “Nuala? Cerridwen? Are you…here?”

There was no reply, nor did the wraiths appear, and she frowned in confusion. It wasn’t so much that she minded dressing herself as it was odd that they wouldn’t come when asked. It wasn’t like either of them, and it prickled against some instinct. Surely if some harm had befallen them sneaking into the realm, Azriel would have interceded. He hadn’t mentioned anything when she’d seen him earlier, nor had he seemed concerned or distracted. Perhaps he’d tasked them with something else.

Hastily, she dressed in a pair of riding pants and a loose tunic, only allowing herself to marvel at the fact that she’d never even worn trousers until she’d been turned fae, and that Graysen would have been scandalized to see her in them if she had. She couldn’t decide if the idea amused or disturbed her as she strode from the room and back again towards Azriel’s.

She knocked and entered to find him in full battle gear, the scales of his armor glittering like the hide of some terrifying beast as he continued to arm himself.

“Where is Lucien?” she asked as she watched him, trying not to grow uneasy. One didn’t wear that much steel on them without cause.

“Fetching Graysen,” Azriel said, glancing at her. However, when he spotted her tense posture, he paused from where he was slipping yet another dagger in his boot. “What is it?” he asked, brows knitting in bemused concern.

“Nuala and Cerridwen,” she said, biting her lip. “Have you heard from them since we’ve arrived?”

Azriel frowned.

“There weren’t in your chamber with you?”

Elain shook her head.

“I could have sworn they slipped in behind us when the guards opened the wards. Perhaps I was mistaken. They had orders to return to Velaris otherwise.”

“So you’re not—“ Elain broke off, worrying her fingers. “Worried?”

Azriel bent a warm, reassuring look on her.

“They are both highly trained. If there were to run into any trouble, it would be the trouble I’d be worried for.”

She smiled, feeling relieved.

“You are thoughtful to worry,  _fıstığım_ ,” he murmured, then flushed, an indication that it the last word had been a slip.

“Is that Illyrian?” she said, wishing she could find it in her to be affronted instead of pleased at what was clearly some sort of endearment.

She should have reprimanded him for it, especially after what had happened between them earlier, but with danger breathing down their necks, it seemed pointless to pretend.

“Yes,” he said, still flushing a little as he turned away to check a buckle on his belt that was already tightly synched. “Forgive me, I—occasionally it slips out.”

“What does it mean?” she pressed, a touch more serious now.

He considered before answering.

“Little one.”

She must have bristled, because he turned to face her again, expression solemn and penitent.

“A term often used between friends,” he assured her, though he looked away a moment later. “Forgive me, it’s not my place to call you my friend.”

Her heart ached at the tenderness in his voice, and she shook her head.

“Perhaps not,” she admitted. “But given everything we are likely to face today, I will let it slide.”

He gave a genteel nod of his head as the door opened and Lucien and Graysen, both sour from the other’s presence, filed in, the door sliding shut behind them. Lucien made for her at once, and Graysen gave a small noise of disgust and turned away.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Lucien murmured, eyes warm but face unsmiling. “Are you ready,  _m’elanned_?”

Both Azriel and Graysen stiffened at the familiar, the former no doubt given his own slip just minutes before , and the latter because it was a term that was clearly affectionate in nature, and also one that was utterly fae.

“As I’ll ever be,” Elain said, fighting the urge to look at Graysen.

“Let’s go then,” Azriel said. “We need to be far inland by the time the sun rises and the queen is changed back into a firebird.”

“I just assumed we were sailing back,” Elain said, glancing between Azriel and Lucien in mild annoyance. How very male of them to make decisions behind her back.

“There isn’t time,” Azriel said. “We winnow to the coast, then make two cuts up through Spring in to Summer.”

“But,” Elain protested, glancing at a grim-faced Lucien. “That will take us nearly to the Autumn border.”

At this Graysen seemed to perk up, or at least begin listening in earnest.   _Good,_  Elain thought. They didn’t have time for him to drag his feet, and if the threat of Beron Vanserra and his human-hating brood was what it took to get Graysen’s attention, so be it.

“We don’t have a choice,” Lucien told Elain, breaking her reverie. “We’re on a race against the clock, and this is the most direct route.”

“Can’t you just winnow us directly into Summer, or Velaris, even?” Elain asked Azriel, ignoring Lucien as he stiffened slightly beside us.

Azriel cut him a fleeting glance to the younger male before shaking his head.

“Not all four of us,” he explained and suddenly Elain understand Lucien’s agitation.

Even as a high lord’s son, he couldn’t winnow as far at Azriel’s shadows allowed him to, and it was the reason that they had to go in segments.

“We’ll travel in pairs,” Lucien said, touching Elain’s elbow. “You’re with me, little one.”

Elain tried not the stiffen, not at the endearment, but at the urge to look at Azriel. She was used to Lucien calling her sweet pet names, but she realized now by comparison, they inspired nothing of the same warmth as Azriel’s murmured Illyrian had. For a moment, she found herself wondering if ‘little one’ was really all he’d called her, then castigating herself for hoping it had been something a little more—

“Let’s get on with it then,” Graysen growled. “I’d like to reach the North before I perish of old age.” At this he gave Elain a sour look. “Though perhaps I understand why I am the only one of us to share this concern.”

“Save it, Lordling,” Lucien snarled lazily. “We don’t have time for your japes, tepid as they may be.”

Graysen whispered a foul retort under his breath, and Lucien snarled again, this time with a caress of power that was decidedly inhuman. It was clear that despite how softly Graysen had spoken, Lucien’s fae hearing had no trouble picking it up.

“Are you deaf?” he demanded. “Keep your mouth shut, or the Illyrian will shut it for you.” he paused to sneer at Graysen. “Permanently.”

Seemingly despite himself, Graysen cast a wary glance in Azriel’s direction before shrugging and falling into sullen silence.

“Let’s go,” Azriel said, eyes cast out to the pre-dawn light leaking into the sky. “We’re burning daylight.”

At this they slipped out of the castle wrapped in Azriel’s shadows, silent and unseen, before spilling back onto the beach they’d arrived on the previous evening. The sun had crept that much higher in the sky by the time they arrived, and Elain’s trepidation with it.

Lucien gently gripped her by the elbow, preparing to winnow them to the first checkpoint.

“Be on your guard, Vanserra,” Azriel said, gripping a petulant Graysen by the back of the collar. For his part, Graysen had gone pale at watching the shadows wend around him and Azriel like inky serpents. “There are worst things than Vassa in The Greatwood.”

“As if I need reminding,” Lucien said with an acerbic dryness. “Ready,  _m’elanned_?”

“Yes,” she said, stealing a final glance at Azriel, willing him to remember his promise to her. He nodded slightly, and something tight in her chest eased.

“Safe travels then, Shadowsinger,” Lucien said, voice uncharacteristically solemn.

With that, they vanished.

Elain had never winnowed with Lucien before, but she found just as it was with Azriel, that she was cuccooned in his scent, earthen sunlight, some dark spice, and crackling flame. It was not perhaps as soothing as the cool aroma of herbs and dark wood, but it still made her feel safe.

They arrived at the first checkpoint at daybreak, and Azriel had Lucien shield Elain and Graysen as he checked the skies before returning.

“All clear,” he said, grabbing Graysen again. “Let’s go.”

Graysen jerked from his grip.

“Why do I have to go with him?” Graysen demanded, face slightly ashen. “I think those shadows are making me ill.”

“Because Elain can’t winnow yet,” Lucien said, and Graysen stiffened at the insinuation that someday she would likely grown into her power enough that she could.

“And if you and Vanserra travel together,” Azriel added, yanking Graysen back to him and letting the shadows slither over him like so many tentacles. “Then you could very well bring Elain’s vision to pass. Enough winging, boy. Let’s go.”

With that they disappeared, and Elain and Lucien and followed. However, when they arrived to appointed clearing, perilously close to the Autumnal border, it was to find they were alone.

“They should be here,” Lucien said, drawing a slim saber from his hip. “Something is wrong.”

Elain’s pulse spiked sharply.

“What do you— _ah_!”

Without warning she crumpled, eyes going milky as a vision took over her sight.

It was the same one she’d had all those weeks ago, with a fox and a wolf  tearing away from a blazing inferno. However, this time the vision continued, and Elain watched the wolf arc back  _towards_ the flame, protected by a shield of Autumn’s leaves. When it had passed safety through, a crowned figure emerged, his body wreathed in tonguing flame.

When she came to, gasping, Lucien at her side, his face distraught.

“Elain, what—“

“Run,” she croaked, trying to push him away from her. She was too weak to get up, but there was still time for him to escape.

“What the hell are you—“

“Lucien, it’s a trap.  _Ru_ —“

It was too late. A wall of fire had indeed erupted around them, ringing the whole clearing and blocking any escape. Lucien yanked Elain to her feet as he threw out a hand to make an archway though the blaze, dragging her behind him. However, in a second a bevy of figures appeared, all with hair as red as Lucien’s own.

Two were behind them before Elain could think to react, tearing Lucien and Elain apart.

“Hello, little brother,” a third called in greeting, strolling through the very arch Lucien had created. It roared shut behind him, and he gave his youngest brother a vulpine smile.

“Consus,” Lucien snarled. “Where’s Eris?”

Consus rolled his eyes.

“Eris has annoyingly chosen now to develop a conscience, and thus had be dealt with. But I know someone else who’s just  _dying_  to see you.”

Lucien struggled against his confinement as Graysen appeared from behind yet another of Lucien’s brothers, looking cowed.

Elain gave an agonised snarl at seeing him, eyes blurring with tears.

“I’m sorry, Elain,” he said, voice flat but steady.

“Where is Azriel?”

At this Consus gave a mocking laugh.

“You hear that, little brother? We have you dead to rites, and all your pretty mate cares about is some filthy Illyrian  _bastard.”_

There was a chorus of rough laughter, and Elain grit her teeth and turned back to Graysen.

“Why?” she demanded. “Why would you do this?”

“Because he stole me from you!” Graysen burst, shooting Lucien an ugly glare. “Because you were meant to be my bride, and now you’re his creature.”

Elain let out a frustrated cry.

“I am no one’s! I could have been yours, even after I was turned, but you chose to cast me aside!”

“And what? I was just supposed to shrivel and age as my wife only grew more beautiful? What kind of life is that, Elain!”

Elain choked on a sob.

“It would still have been a life together! I didn’t choose this, but you could have chosen me! This is not Lucien’s fault. In fact, it’s no one’s but your own.”

Graysen gave a snarl.

“He worked his fae sorcery on you, claimed you with his foul magic. How could we ever be together after that?”

“So, what?” Elain said, face wet with tears and arms aching from shruggling against her captor. “You would have him killed for revenge?”

“And for gold,” Consus added, still grinning. “Don’t forgot the mountain of gold my father promised you.”

“Shut up,” Lucien snapped. “Where is Father?”

Elain glanced around, suddenly remembering herself with a surge of panic.

“And  _where is Azriel_?“

At this, the flame’s at the far end of the clearing began to spit and hiss, and a second later, Beron Vanserra emerged, dragging a gray-faced Azriel along the ground beside him.

“Azriel!” Elain screamed, her struggling beginning anew. “Az!”

Beron’s lips quirked in amusement as he pulled Azriel to his feet before sliding Truth-teller from it’s sheath at Azriel’s thigh.

Before Elain could scream her next protest,  Beron slammed the knife into Azriel’s ribs in six quick, deadly strokes. Azriel moaned in pain, blood gushing down his side as Beron cast him, face-first, into the mud.

“Yours, I believe” he said, gesturing to Azriel’s trembling form before glancing up at Elain and smiling.

Elain did scream this time, a horrible earth-rending sound that only seemed to amuse Beron further. She felt something in her chest strain and snap off as Azriel gave a soft sound of pain, trying and failing to rise before collapsing back into the squelching earth. She snarled again, her arms nearly popping from their sockets as she fought to get to his side.

However, despite her screaming, the others barely seemed to notice.

“Now that that’s dealt with,” Beron said, stepping over Azriel and approaching Lucien, a crimson-soaked Truth-teller still twirling in a hand. “I wish to speak to my… _son_. Lucien,” he said, studying the younger male with a curious emnity. “It’s been too long.”


	9. Part IX

Elain continued to scream and thrash, and after a moment of eying Lucien with distaste, Beron’s brown eyes flicked to her.

“Gag her,” he said with disinterest.

Elain clenched her jaw in protest, but one of the males holding her pried her mouth open while the other forced a bit of flame between her teeth. It didn’t burn her, but it also turned her pleas into no more than hoarse whispers.

Lucien watched her in silent dismay before cutting his bi-colored glare to his father.

“Why?” he said, expression etched with an uncharacteristic dismay. “I’m your son.”

Beron’s sneer deepened, and Lucien flinched back slightly. He had never said as much to Elain—perhaps had never even truly admitted it to himself—Beron’s rejection had broken some part of him as a child, and it was a part that could never be remade.

“You are no such thing,” Beron snarled, coming close enough that he and Lucien were nearly nose to nose. “You are the disgusting by-blow of your whore mother and a filthy mongrel not worthy of his own title.”

Lucien recoiled, shaking his head in confusion. This seemed to amuse Beron, and he gave a cruel half-smile.

“Have you never met Helion spell-cleaver, then?” Beron taunted. “I would have thought he’d have sought you out by now. Perhaps he doesn’t know, either.”

“You’re mad,” Lucien said, and any amusement melted from Beron’s face.

“You may have your mother’s hair, her eyes, but in every other regard, you are your father’s son.“

Elain could feel when the realization struck Lucien, feel the hurt and stabbing sense of betrayal crackling down their bond like lightening against a steel rod. She screamed from the pain of it, her gaze momentarily torn from Azriel and finding Lucien already looking at her, stricken with grief.

“Fine,” he croaked after a heavy pause, eyes flitted back to Beron. “Then kill me. Just please, let the Elain and the Shadowsinger go.”

Beron let out a huff of cold mirth.

“I had the mortal give the Illyrian faebane before I stuck him; he’ll be dead soon.”

Elain screamed again, battling her bonds and her own fatigue to get to Azriel, who’d fallen still save for the infrequent rising and falling of his chest to indicate he was still breathing.

“And seers are very rare,” Beron continued, grabbing Elain by the chin and studying her as if she were a prized jewel. “I would have that power bred into my bloodlne.”

Lucien gave a nasty snarl, but Beron only narrowed his eyes, as if trying to decide Elain’s exact worth to the last copper.

“I had thought Eris at first, but he’s proved most disappointing.  Consus, perhaps, or Gaius.”

“Don’t you dare,” Lucien said, but Beron only tutted, finally releasing Elain.

“You are in now place to be giving me orders, welp. I—“

He broke off at a terrible shriek echoing in the distance, like the hunting cry of an enormous bird of prey.

“What was that?” Consus demanded, drawing a bow and fitting an arrow to the string in the span of a single breath. “Some sort of beast from Spring? I thought you said Tamlin wouldn’t be a problem, Father!”

However, Lucien only laughed, the sound full of almost manic relief.

“That’s not Tamlin,” he said.

Beron growled at the impudence in Lucien’s tone, flaming crackling to life in his fingertips. However, before he could strike, there was another unearthly aquiline scream, this one much louder.

“Look out!”

Elain was dragged to the ground as the Autumn males all turned skyward in time to see a bird the size of impressive size emerge into the clearing, loosing a third blood-chilling cry. It had wings the color of a dancing flame, the plumage a blood orange near the body before fading to crimson and finally a deep blue. They stirred the grass with every beat, their whooshing roar nearly as loud as the beast’s cry.

The bird gave another shriek before opening it’s gleaming golden beak and emitting a torrent of fire of the same crushing blue as it’s wings. Impossibly, it seemed to be burning through the ring of fire Beron had erected.

Chaos erupted, the fae males diving away from the arctic flames and scrambling for bows and ash arrows to try and bring down the enormous firebird. However, it became clear when the first arrow struck and the bird gave no more than a squawk of annoyance that it was not fae.

The meleé was enough of a distraction that Elain was able to throw and elbow and catch one of her captors—the only one who had remained to guard her—in the nose, forcing him to let go.

In a second Lucien was at her side, ripping the magical gag from her mouth.

“Elain, run!” he screamed, covering her head from a another blast of blue fire All around them, Autumn soldiers had begun winnowing in, their own crackling flames tempering that of the firebird.

“ _Please_ ,” he said before shoving her towards the gap the Firebird had made in Beron’s shield.

He turned then, redrawing his saber and thrusting it through the chest of the nearest soldier, who barely had time to scream before he crumpled to a heap.

Elain watched in horror, suddenly finding herself in a clearing not so different from this one, her hands covered in blood tainted black with foul magic as the king of Hybern swayed on his feet.

“Elain!” Lucien repeated, a hand blindly outstretched to ward others away from her as he squared off with another Autumn sentry. “Get out of here!”

He gave her a gentle shove in the direction of the still burning archway, which lead back into one of the pastoral vistas of Spring.

However, Elain did not heed him. She turned her back on the passage instead, brushing past Lucien to amidst his screaming protestation as she sprinted to where Beron had dropped Truth-teller into the mud.

She managed to pry it loose just as one of Lucien’s snarling brothers approached, and just as it had that day against Hybern, the blade seemed to know where it wanted to go, and drove through the male’s chest and straight into his beating heart. This time, she didn’t scream, just shoved his body out of the way before tearing to Azriel’s side.

Halfway there, Graysen threw himself in her path, face wan.

“Elain,” he said, opening his arms in a supplicating gesture. “I—“

“Get out of my way,” she snarled through her tears, raising Truth-teller to Graysen’s exposed throat and willing it not to tremble in her hand. “Or I will gut you like the pig you are.”

Graysen gave a strangled noise that might have been a sob, might have been her name, and she raised the dagger, prepared to strike. However, when she say the fear in his eyes, her courage waned. She hated him for what he’d done, what it might cost her, but she’d also loved him once, too. Snarling through her tears, she let her arm drop as before she using her fae strength to shove him to the ground, nearly tripping over him in her haste to get to Azriel.

After what seemed like an eternity, time having turned to molten lead since the second Azriel was stabbed, Elain collapsed down beside him, letting out a sob of effort as she heaved him onto his back and into her lap as best she could. He had to be almost two hundred pounds of pure muscle, and she was barely able to lift his shoulders.

His wings hung limp as rags, his face pallid and his battle leathers stained obsidian with blood. A plume of shadows spidered out when she turned him, curling around him like the clammy hands of death.

She put a palm to the wounds at his side and he gave a wet moan, his eyes fluttering open.

“Elain,” he croaked, reaching a hand up to touch her face before his strength failed and his arm fell back to his side.

“I’m here,” she said in a whisper, pressing her forehead to his. “I’m right here.”

“I’m glad,” he said with effort, his eyes fluttering closed before dragging back open.  However, the sparkle in them—the kindness, the cleverness, the quiet humor—was growing increasingly dim.

“What happened?” she croaked, watching the effort it took Azriel just to swallow.

“Graysen—had some kind of weaponized faebane one of the Autumn princes must have given him. He sprayed me in the face the minute we landed. I couldn’t use my powers, could barely stand. Then Beron appeared—“

He broke off to cough, and Elain grit her teeth to fracture the sob that clawed up her throat.

"Why didn’t you go back to Velaris?” she begged, running her hands through his mud-soaked hair. “Then none of this would have happened.”

He shook his head with effort, grappling for her fingers and pressing them to his cheek.

“I couldn’t leave you.”

“You still can’t,” Elain said fiercely, squeezing his hand. “You promised me, Azriel.”

The left side of his mouth twitched in what she thought might have been meant as a smile.

“That’s a promise I’m no longer sure I can keep,” he said.

“Don’t say that,” she all but begged. “You are not allowed to die; I forbid it.”

He nodded, eyelids sagging as he struggled to look at her.

“You can’t go,” she told him. “Not when there is still so much we’ve yet to properly discuss.”

She regretted it now, every second she’d spent being angry with him, and that she had not let him speak when he’d been trying to confess something to her earlier.

” _Те сакам_ ,” he breathed in answer, gaze going in and out of focus.

“What does that mean?” she said in a quiet, soothing voice, swiping at the tears on her cheeks.

She would be strong. For him, she could be strong. For him, she could be anything. Once that might have seemed a weakness of will, the act of a female heedless of her own power. But now, glancing down at Azriel, she realized it was the ultimate show of strength.

“What does it mean, Az?” she repeated, and this time he did smile, a soft gentle thing that broke her heart.

“I think—“ he got out with effort, smile turning to a grimace. “you know.”

With that, he lost consciousness, his breaths growing that much more shallow.

She screamed her agony, her frustration, her fear, looking around wildly for something— _anything—_ that could help Azriel.

She saw nothing. The fight between Lucien, Vassa, and The Autumn court continued to rage around her, Graysen having disappeared sometime during the madness.

Elain glanced down at Azriel in desperation, wishing her power were healing instead. What good was it seeing into the future if you couldn’t prevent it?Better than she could travel into the past, and keep all this from happening. Perhaps then, she couldn’t be sitting here uselessly in the mud with the male she loved dying in her arms.

However, as if in answer to her plea, her power seemed to trill to life, sparkling in the depths of her subconscious and urging her to come closer, to give in to its humming sway.

She had never really done so, besides weathering the visions she couldn’t keep at bay. Could it be possible there was more to it than simple foresight? No, it was impossible; one could not alter their gifts.

But then—Nesta had. Nesta had clawed the very heart of the cauldron out with nothing but sheer force of will. Elain would never pretend that she had even a fraction of her sister’s nerve, but glancing down at Azriel, his lips bloodiness and chest nearly still, she knew she had to try.

Digging her fingers into his leather to anchor herself, she dove headfirst into that glimmering chasm into her mind, delving deeper and deeper until the pressure was enough to shatter her subconscious to pieces. However, she soldiered on, pushing past fragments of memory and wisps of the future until she reaching the burning heart of her magic, a sacred, molten core where time and space seemed to intersect.

Snarling, she drove her whole self into it, clawing and shredding until a crack appeared, big enough for her consciousness to squeeze through.

Inside was a swirling vortex, the light so bright that had she still been clothed in her skin, it would have melted off her bones. As it were, she felt her mind sag as the weight of eternity—of the infinite universe—crushed down on her. She began to despair; perhaps she couldn’t do this after all.

_You could do anything you wished._

She could still her the quiet confidence in Azriel’s voice as he’d said those words to her, and she drove the memory of that day—of how his faith had irrevocably changed her—deep enough into the fabric of time that it became an anchor, grounding her enough to get her bearings.

She could sense more than see the abyss of eternity in front and behind her, the poles of past and future each threatening to tear her from her tenuous mooring and into a void from which she could tell there would be no returning.

However, laid over time was space, and she willed an image of the townhouse to appear, trying to picture every detail of the cozy library before working her way outwards, until she could see the whole of Velaris as if she were atop the balcony at the House of Wind.

Trying the gauge the pattern of the tides of time and space, as they eddied together and apart, she blindly lunged for a single point on the infinite horizon. She made her mind into arrow and shot for that point.

Somewhere in her distant consciousness, she remember that her body was still holding Truth-teller, and she willed what magic it possessed into her strike, begging it to help her aim true.

The journey nearly broke her, but she focused on that anchor, on the light in Azriel’s eyes, which shone all the brighter for his darkness and shadows.

Just when the strain became nearly unbearable, Elain burst back into the corporeal world, though she noted at once she she herself was little more that a wraith, her body a floating whisp.

She heard a scream, and turned to see Feyre there, staring at her in horror.

_Azriel is dying. You have to save him._

Elain could feel the fabric of reality trying to sow itself shut around her, trap her here and keep her from ever reuniting with her body, with Azriel.

Feyre, for her part, was still standing completely still, rooted to the spot by a fear so sharp Elain could smell it into the air. Elain wanted to shake her, to demand to know if she’d arrived too late.

However, there wasn’t time. Elain could feel the portal she’d made buckling, pulling her back with the force of a collapsing star.

_On the 17th day at dawn, come to the Autumn border. Save us. Save Azriel!_

With a bone-bending jerk, Elain felt as her soul was slingshot back across the universe, slamming into her body with enough force she was surprised she didn’t burst apart.

It hadn’t though, she realized after a moment spent reassembling her sanity. She was back, and relatively unharmed.

She had no indication of how much time had passed, though, or if she’d simply returned to the precise moment she’d left. She looked up to see Lucien and Vassa still toiling against the Autumn legion, now numbering near four dozen, before her eyes fell to Azriel, his chest the barest rise and fall.

Still alive. He was  _still alive,_ and she wasn’t too late; Feyre and the others could still come and save him.

She had only a moment to rejoice though, only a moment to wonder whether Feyre had really heard her pleas, before pain surged up and over her like the swelling tide of an arctic sea, a thousand times colder but just as heavy.

She felt its gelid undertow dragging her down again, and the last thing she saw was a burst of daylight and a dark male shining like the sun incarnate before she fell, headlong, into darkness.

* * *

At the beginning of the world, there was nothing. Then came the first dawn. It was from that nothing Elain felt herself emerging days later, that same newborn light washing over her as she was drawn back to the world.

She too felt reborn under its warmth, though her eyes—so accustomed to that darkness now—had some difficulty taking it in as her eyes fluttered open, reality filtering into focus slowly, like light through a spider’s silken web.

She blinked several times before her eyes adjusted enough to note that Lucien was at her bedside, watching her with a fearful admiration. She wanted to ask how long she’d been out, how he was and how they’d survived, but then the memory of what had happened sweep any thought but one away.

“How is—“

Lucien gave a pained smile.

“He’s fine, thanks to you and Thesan. Up and walking, I’m told.”

Elain felt the sickening terror, which had rose in a dizzying wave, break and hiss into a soft, swishing relief. Azriel, her Azriel, was  _alive._

“What happened?”

Lucien laughed, through their was a echo of sadness ringing against the mirth.

“You achieved astral travel, my love. That’s what. You saved all of our lives. Yours, mine, Vassa’s,” he paused, eyes finding hers. “Azriel’s.“

Elain’s heart trilled at the realization. For the first time since she’d been made, she’d been the one to master her gift, instead of her gift mastering her. She found, along with the continued relief that they were safe, a swelling pride in her chest.

“Feyre came?”

Lucien only shook his head.

“She and Rhys were too far off, and she was afraid they wouldn’t be able to get through the wards in time.”

Elain frowned in confusion, pushing into a sitting position. Her body ached from her too-long sleep, but she otherwise felt better than she’d expected to.

“But I saw—“ she began, and Lucien’s jaw tightened in an expression she couldn’t read.

“She sent Helion instead. He was able to shatter the shield my f— _Beron_ stole from Hybern after the war. Once it was destroyed, Tamlin and Rhys were both able to winnow in their forces. It was a quick fight after that.”

Elain nodded, reaching over to grip Lucien’s warm hand.

“How are you?”

He laughed again in the same bittersweet tone.

“The female bends the laws of time and space to save lives, and all she wishes to know is if I am well? I do not deserve you,  _m’elanedd_. _”_

She smiled but did not relent in her focus, and he sighed.

“Confused,” he admitted after a breath, squeezing her fingers. HIs, she realized, where trembling slightly. “And hurt. But also relieved. I spent my entire live agonized over what I could have possibly done to make my—“ he broke off, gently detangling their fingers to run a hand through his auburn hair. “ To make Beron hate me as much as he did,” he finished. "At least now I have my answer.”

Elain swallowed.

“Is Beron—“ she began, and Lucien nodded, face unlined but grim.

“Cassian tore him to pieces the minute Helion brought down the shield. I’m glad you were not there to witness the carnage of it,  _m’elanedd_. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen something so savage.”

Elain winced. Despite his fierceness, she knew how that Illyrian savagery wore at Cassian, and how his distress would likely wear on Nesta, even if she were too proud to admit it.

“I think when he saw Azriel lying there he just snapped,” Lucien said quietly. “I don’t always like the prick, but I can’t deny he is protective and loyal to a fault.“

“What about your other brothers?” Elain asked.

Lucien let out a weighted exhale.

“All dead, save for Eris. Morrigan found him locked in the Autumn dungeons when she went to make sure my mother was unharmed. By the time she got there, my father’s power had already passed to him. He’s High Lord now, since Feyre convinced Mor not to kill him, and he swore allegiances until Rhys, Helion, and Tamlin were all finally satisfied. I think we’ll still have to keep an eye on him, though.”

Elain nodded and then lapsed into silence, something dense and foreboding swirling between them. Elain’s chest ached, physically ached, as if the mating bond had seen her heart and was desperate to keep it from speaking the truth Azriel’s near-death had etched there.

“Lucien—” she began, but he cut her off.

“Do you feel up to walking a bit?” he said, extending a hand to her. “There’s something I wish to speak to you about. It’s why I send the others away.” He paused to give a sheepish—if incredibly strained—laugh. "Well, ’sent’ is perhaps a strong word. Nesta nearly clawed my eyes out. Cassian had to drag her out spitting and hissing.”

Elain smiled at this, if only to soothe his obvious unease. She could see loss and pain roiling in his eyes, and she didn’t think it was all for Beron or his brothers.

She pushed back the covers on her bed, getting onto legs that trembled like a newborn fawn’s. She took the arm he offered to steady herself, wincing as the bond warbled at the touch, urging her into it with renewed urgency. She shoved it away, savagely enough that it went temporarily silent in her blood.

They were in her old bedroom in the House of Wind, she finally noted, and they didn’t speak as they made their way out through the doors onto the resplendent balcony that overlooked the Velarisian valley.

There had been a time not so long ago when these doors had remained locked for Elain’s safety, to keep her from the self-harm they had all so feared from her. It was Azriel who had opened them the first time, gently coaxing her out onto the balcony to sit with him and admire the amethyst wisteria covering the stone walls.

Elain inhaled their sweet scent now, setting into the warmth of the memory as if it were a fresh-bath drawn after a day of tears and toil.

She and Lucien stood awhile admiring the view suffuse in late-afternoon sunshine before he turned, taking her hands and inviting her to sit on a nearby bench.

“Lucien,” she began, tentatively reaching to brush his cheek. However, he caught her wrist before she could make contact, setting it gently back into her lap.

“I think I know what you would say, but please, let me speak first.”

She swallowed, feeling guilty and ashamed for trying to touch him just then. She could feel a slippery shard of pain slide down their straining bond at the attempt, as if too could sense what she was feeling.

“Of course,” she breathed, folding her hands to hide their trembling.

He sighed in what may have been relief, or perhaps apprehension, before looking back up at her.

“Elain,” he began, glancing down again to watch her fingers worrying at the cotton of her dressing gown. “You know I care for you very much, and I hope it’s not too much to presume that you care for me as well.”

“It’s not,” she said, but before she could gently clarify, he pressed on.

“Then I hope I will not scare you when I speak my mind. I know that you did not wished to be made, and certainly did not ask to be mated to me, and I respect that. Of course I do. But I will not pretend to you that as I grew to know you better, I had hoped you would someday come to care for me in the same way I do you, and that we would be mated.”

Her fingers were red now from her fretful machinations with her gown, and he reached to softly touch her hands, just enough to stop their increasingly nervous fidgeting.

“I do love you, Elain,” he admitted. “Perhaps it is the bond, or your lovely and generous heart, but I have fallen in love with you.”

She must have tensed, or perhaps he could scent and sense her terror, because he pressed on, fingers tightening on hers.

“I love you,” he repeated. “But I want you to break our bond, formally.” He paused, glancing down at their joined hands. “Permanently.”

Elain’s hearted stuttered then started again, and Lucien clearly heard it, because he gently squeezed her fingers again.

“Please,” he said, voice strained. “I know it’s a terrible thing to burden you with, but I just can’t—I can’t do it myself. I tried, but—”

He bowed his head, and she touched his cheek in comfort, coaxing him to look at her again.

“I’m sorry,” he bit out, and there were tears in his remaining eye.

“Why are you sorry?” she breathed. “You have never been anything but kind to me.”

“Because I see you,” Lucien said, touching the fingers she’d pressed to his cheek. “I can feel you, and I know I’m not the male you desire. Forgive me, Elain; it was wrong of me to try and drive you from the path you clearly wished to travel.”

“Lucien—“

“I do love you,” he repeated a third time, drowning out her soft protestations. “But so does he, and I think he understands you in ways I do not. When you were—before we knew you were a seer, I was ready to lock you up to keep you safe from the world, safe from yourself. He was the one to see you for what—for  _who_ —you are. He was the one to let you out of this cage so you could find yourself again.”

He paused before continuing.

“And I am not blind; I know the way you look at him when you think I cannot see, and I know what it means. I was in love once, centuries ago. I am not oblivious to it’s symptoms.”

She bit her lip, tears spilling down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed at last. “I wish things were different.”

He brushed away another tear.

“Do not wish that,  _m’elanned,_ ” he breathed. “And do not apologize for your heart. I may have wished—may still selfishly wish—that you would my affections, but I would not want them at the cost of your happiness and fufillment. You fought very hard for the life you’ve built; you deserve for it to be full of joy.”

“So do you,” she croaked over a sob, leaning forward to press her forehead to his. “And I am sorry, if I was false with you. I care for you very deeply; I only wanted you to be happy as well.”

He gave a soft, sorrowful, smile.

“I know that. And I cannot promise that I will be able to—“ he broke off, clenching his jaw and looking down. “—right away,” he finished. “But give me some time, and we will be a part of each other’s lives again. And who knows? The cauldron works in mysterious ways; perhaps that’s what we were always meant to be. All I do know is that you are a treasure, and I am honored to have you in my life.”

“The honor is mine,” she breathed.

He nodded, squeezing her hands again even as he leaned away a bit.

“Where will you go?” she asked softly after a beat.

Lucien blew out a weighted breath.

“Helion has invited me to come to Alessandrina,” he said. “It seems he and I have much to discuss.”

Elain nodded, not sure she should continue before giving in to the urge and blurting, “And after? Will you go back to the Mortal Realm?”

He looked up, russet eye alight.

“Most likely. With Helion, I have renewed hope that I might be able to help Vassa. She saved my life, after all. I owe her.”

“She loves you,” Elain told him, feeling that if ever there was a time of bald honesty between them, it was now.

“I know,” Lucien admitted after another heavy exhale. “And I think I might love her, too. Or at least grow to. She is magnificent, and the bond is…different for males. It takes root much deeper, and the instincts are harder to ignore. It has been—hard for me to see around it, particularly where Vassa is concerned.”

Elain bit her lip, sensing the shift in tone even before Lucien gently shackled her wrist and pressed it over his thundering heart.

“That is why I need you to be the one to break it,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Because I lack the strength to.”

She felt more tears well up, pushed to the surface by the ferocious pounding of the bond in her chest. It was like a caged beast, sensing danger and snarling to be set free.

“Please,” he said with more insistence. “For my sake as much as yours. Do this, and we will be free.”

She knew—could sense deep down—it was not nearly as simple as he made it seem. This was not something that could be cut away and forgotten. She could break it and sever their mental and physical connection, but the remnant of it would always remain. Hers would be, perhaps, less painful than his, but that did little to assuage her fear. She did love Lucien in her way—she always would—and the thought of hurting him made her feel sick.

Still, when she noted the pleading and quiet resolution in his eyes, and remembered Azriel the night he’d kissed her, his expression same one he’d bent on her when he’d lain dying in her arms, her decision was fully made.

“Please,  _m’elanned_ ,” Lucien urged, eyes slipping closed. “Just do it.”

The bond roared at this, boiling in her blood and biting into her bones.

“I—“ she choked. “I don’t know if I—“

“Yes,” Lucien said, laying his hand atop hers to press into farther into the warmth of his chest. “You can.”

_You could do anything you wished_.

Elain willed Azriel to mind: the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her, the gentleness he’d also bent on her, the fierceness in his stance whenever he sensed she was upset. She still didn’t know exactly what it was he felt for her, but she knew what she felt for him, and despite her fear, she knew it was worth fighting for. It was worth taking this step and setting Lucien free, even if it pained them both somewhat to do it.

Rallying her strength, she ventured into her interior self, seeking the bond which now seemed to be hiding from its inevitable fate. Still, she found it buried deep, it’s roots digging into her soul. With agonizing effort she began to pull, imagining she was in her lovely garden. For the flowers to flourish, she had to tear out the weeds.

The bond spit and hissed at her efforts, trying to burrow deeper. However, she kept pulling until it began to give ground. Rallying her strength, she pulled at it again, and all at once she felt the bond go taut and break. Not break, she realized after a moment. It was still there. It was as if she had snapped it’s neck. It was still alive somehow, still frothing slightly, but it had been paralyzed, its impulses no longer flowing down the tenuous bridge between then, which had gone dark. Unable to look at it any longer, Elain pulled back to herself.

She wasn’t surprised to find she was crying, or that Lucien was, and she took a shuddering breath to gentle the pain throbbing her chest. Her hand slipped from where it had been pressed to his heart, and he stumbled up and back several paces, heaving as if he might be sick.

“Lucien,” she choked, watching him straighten to his full height and shake his head, hand still pressed against his heart. “Are you—”

He glanced up at her, gaze full of an alacrity that surprised her.

“I feel strange,” he admitted, peeling his palm awake from his body to examine it before looking back to her. “I feel…unchained.”

Elain bit back a sob, not wanting to admit she felt the same, and that now it was done, the urge to go to Azriel had taken the bond’s place in her heart with a fierceness left her feeling almost giddy.

That joy dimmed when she looked at Lucien again though, caramel skin slightly pale and expression pained.

She approached to touch his cheek and reassure herself he was truly was alright, but he held up a hand to ward her off.

“Please,” he said without malice, hand going to his chest again. “I’m—it’s still too—“

He broke off to give her a soft but weary smile.

“ I just need time to…adjust.”

“I’m sorry,“ she breathed, feeling as wretched now as realized. “To cause you this pain. I’m sorry I couldn’t—“

He cut her off without another smile, this one less pain-drenched than the last, though still unbearably tight.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, and she could hardly endure the doleful affection in his voice. “I asked you to do it,” He paused, trying to measure her expression before adding in a quiet voice. “I want a female who wants me in return. In this regard, you have set me free to find her.”

Elain choked on a sound, a mix of sorrow and relief.

“You deserve that, and more,” she agreed, mastering herself a bit.

He smiled, she thought he might embrace her. However, after a moment he merely bowed.

“An honor as always then, my beautiful, terrible Princess of Thorns.”

Despite everything, she laughed, something tight in her chest loosening.

“Take care of yourself, Lucien,” she said, giving him a soft smile as well. “You are still mine to protect. If you get into unnecessary trouble, you know I will find you and be forced to scold you.”

He smiled too, and her heart broke and remade itself, the shards of the bond fluttering down into a place of considerably less pain.

“I will see you soon, Elain Archeron.”

“I will think of you often until then,” she promised him, and he gave a final smile before turning back to the balcony’s ledge.

A trill of terror spiked in her blood when he took a step forward.

“What are you—“

He turned, and grinned, a gesture so at odds with the pain still brimming in his remaining eye.

“Don’t worry,  _m’elanned_. I have Spell-Cleaver blood, remember?”

And with that, he cut a neat seam in the House of Wind’s infamous ward with flick of his wrist before winnowing into nothing.

Elain collapsed into sobs the minute he disappeared, joy, terror, and relief commingling in great, heaving gasps. By the time the door of her suite burst open, she found she was laughing too, the expression breaking the rhythm of tears in comical hiccups.

“Elain!” Nesta cried, tearing in and falling to her sister’s side. “What happened?”

“Where’s Vanserra?” Rhys demanded, dark power roiling at his fingertips and Cassian drew the sword from his back, wings flaring.

“Gone,” Elain said, accepting Nesta’s helping to her feet and still half-laughing, half-sobbing.

Nesta, who had always been one to privilege rage over care, growled, “What did he do to you?”

“We broke the bond,” Elain said, and everyone fell silent. “It’s done.”

“Are you—alright?” Feyre said cautiously, stepping forward as if Elain were an animal she didn’t want to frighten. “Did Lucien hurt you?“

Elain laughed, the sound fading to another quasi-manic sob.

“It wasn’t like that. He—he asked me to do it.”

“He  _what_?” Cassian blurted, sword arm going lax as he gawked.

“Why?” Feyre demanded. When Elain gave her a hard look, she added, “It’s very…unusual for a male to accept a severed mating bond.”

“Well  _my_  male isn’t like that,” Elain said, the realization that their entanglement had been settled still sinking in slowly.

“I don’t undestand,” Cassian admitted. “He just—let you go?”

“He cares for me,” Elain said, letting out a shuddering breath that soothed her nerves. “And he knew deep down I didn’t wish to mate him.”

“Did he jump off the balcony?” Rhys blurted, running his hands through his hair in obvious dismay. “He’s gone.”

At this, Elain did laugh, the joy driving back the sorrow and making her feel lighter than air. Everyone else seemed hesitant to join in her merriment, and the horror on their faces had her laughing even harder.

“Of course not,” she said. “He winnowed out.”

“Winnowed out?” Rhys repeated, looking mildly stricken now. “These wards are—“

“No match for Helion Spell-Cleaver’s sole heir, it seems,” Elain finished, giddiness finally ebbing to a calmer peace.

At this, Cassian began to laugh too, and—much to Rhys’s chagrin—so did Feyre.

“This isn’t funny,” Rhys snarled. “There is an unhinged—“

“He’s not unhinged,” Elain said, her voice a touch sharper now. Now that the bond’s drumbeat had faded, she could feel her power’s seductive purr rising to the fore instead, and it emboldened her in a way she had never imagined possible. “He’s gone to Alessandrina. And before you storm there and demand his head on a pike,” she said, voice firm. “Know that he is still my mate, bond or no, and that if you wish to harm him, you will have to do so through me.”

Cassian gave a low whistle, and Rhys stopped, straightening. She felt his immense power as it brushed her, noting it’s new, hardened shape.

“Well then,” Feyre said, looking between Elain and her mate. “What now?”

Elain considered, a sudden realization swelling in her chest.

“How is Azriel? Is he—“

“He’s fine,” Feyre assured her. “He’s recovering at the villa. Madja insisted he have solitude to heal. Mor is with him now, though.”

Elain’s heart tightened at Mor’s mention, and she nearly lost the nerve to ask the question burning on her tongue, too hot to swallow. However, after a moment she straightened, tugging her courage around her like a tattered cloak. It was imperfect, she knew, but it was hers, and she would wear it with pride.

“Lucien said he was up and talking,” Elain made herself say. "Has he asked to see me?”

They all exchanged glances, and Elain fought not to stiffen. It was clear they knew more about this than she’d secretly hoped. Still, it didn’t matter now; one way or another, the truth would soon be revealed.

“He was in some sort of a suspended state when we got him here,” Cassian finally offered. “He didn’t wake for three days, but the only word he would speak was your name.”

Dizzying joy bubbled in Elain’s throat, and she bit her trembling lip.

“And Nuala and Cerridwen?”

“Safe,” Rhys said, though his mouth was tight. “It turns out that Consus gave Graysen the faebane to use on Lucien months ago, and he used it on them to make his journey to Beron’s trap easier.”

Elain thought to ask after Graysen, but found she didn’t have the energy. That—she realized—was a problem for another day.

“They are home now, though, and quite well,” Feyre added before Elain could  fret about the twins again. “They are still recovering too, but will be happy to know that you are awake.”

There was a beat of silence, and Elain took a steadying breath before looking down at her rumpled nightgown. She might have already been metaphorically dressed in her courage, but she wanted something more than that for what she intended to do next.

“Then perhaps you can help me,” she said, turning to her sisters. “I need something fine to wear, and I need you to take me to the villa. I find I have something I need to do.”


	10. Part X

##  **Tender Jar: An Elriel Experiment**                                       

> “Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness, and the infinite tenderness shattered you like a jar”
> 
>  -Pablo Neruda

**Part X**

Azriel stood at the window, eyes cast out to the Sidra glittering beyond the sprawling grounds of Rhys’s ostentatious new villa, watching as a group of delighted youths raced a pair of sleek yachts through the azure water. Something in their delight made his chest ache. Had he ever been that young and carefree, that unburdened by duty and loss?

He knew he hadn’t. He’d been old since the day he was born, back bent by his joyless childhood and the responsibility of his cumbersome gift. He’d also  never really belonged, even with his brothers and the court Rhys built up around them. They loved him, he knew, but they’d never really understood him. No, his was a lonely road, and until recently, one he’d come to accept he was fated to walk alone.

Then Elain Archeron had been made, and he thought he’d found someone at last who  _saw_  him.  _Found_ , he thought bitterly,  _and lost_. He should have pushed harder that night in Vassa’s castle, should have told her how he felt before everything went to ashen Hell.

Or perhaps he already had? He could remember only fragments of what had happened in the clearing after he’d been stabbed, but hadn’t she been there, holding him? He didn’t dare dig too deeply into the memory, afraid if he did that he’d unearth a ugly tin dream in the place of the treasured truth he so desired.

He pressed a palm to his side and winced. One thing he did know: she’d saved his life. The shadows had told him that much as he’d lain clinging to life under Madja’s practiced hands. Just as they’d told him that she’d finally awoken this afternoon.

However, before bullish, selfish instinct had him in the air, hurtling towards the House of Wind to see her, the shadows informed him that she hadn’t been alone. Lucien had been at her bedside since they’d returned to Velaris, it seemed, and now that she was awake, he’d sent the others away so they could be alone.

He’d heard Rhys and Cassian discussing it in quiet tones outside his room earlier.

It had been the gelid swell of reality rushing back in, and it had ached really as bad as six punctures to the side had. But then, what had he expected? Vanserra was her mate, and it had been his name she’d pleaded in Spring, not Azriel’s. And he’d seen, with Rhys and Feyre, how deep the roots of the bond went, and how quick they were to take hold. He’d been so selfish to imagine—

No, he was beyond that now; he’d forced himself to get beyond it before they’d even left Tamlin’s territory. It was her forgiveness he needed now. He’d hoped to get it from her before he retreated to Rosehall to lick his wounds until the worst of the pain subsided, but with Vanserra still at her side, Azriel knew he’d be better appreciated the sooner—and farther—he went.

Spoiled goods, Vanserra had called him. Perhaps he was right. It was probably better he not inflict himself on Elain again. He could stay away until they mated, until they went to Autumn or Alessandrina or even the Mortal Realm.

He felt his shadows heave at the notion, and he prepared to tighten his grip to strangle their insidious whispers when they touched his ear and spoke.

_The Morrigan approaches. She’s come to speak hard truths, both hers and your own. Be prepared._

Azriel stiffened at the knock on the door, wishing he’d had more than several seconds to prepare for Mor’s arrival.

“It’s open,” he said, watching the tail of the trailing yacht slither around the bend in the river and disappeared, its passengers’ delighted shouts fading with it.

“Are you decent?” Mor chirped, and he could hear the laughter in her voice.

There had been a time he lived to hear that joyous, teasing tone, even if the warmth of it had never been quite enough to touch him. Now it just filled him with a low, sickly dread.

_She’s come to speak hard truths, both hers and your own._

Mor had always known him too well _._ She would see the truth about Elain written on his face, and she would pry for answers until she cracked him like a husk and stole what she wanted from inside.

He offered no reply to her teasing, so a moment later the door swung in to admit her, all flashing golden hair and swishing ruby skirts. He hadn’t seen her since he’d awoken the previous morning, and she had tears in her eyes as she surveyed him. In three strides she was across the room, launching herself into his arms and burying her face in his neck.

“Thank the Cauldron you’re alright,” she said, her voice a choked sob. “You scared us all half to death. I thought Cassian was going to go bald from tugging on his hair.”

Azriel wasn’t in the mood to laugh, but he gave a huff of amusement for her sake as he eased her to the floor.

“How are you? Are you still in pain?” she demanded, touching his cheek so she could scan his face.

Afraid of what she might find there, he pulled her hand away, turning to stray onto the terrace before finally answering, “I’m fine. Happy to be alive.”

Mor considered.

“You’re lucky to be. Thesan said five more minutes and—“

She broke off and cleared her throat, as if only just realizing he didn’t need reminding he’d almost died.

“How’s Eris settling in?” he asked in diversion, and she gave a snort of disgust.

“Like a pig in shit,” she said. “He may have tried to stop Beron from murdering his brother, but he’ll still be a problem. Mark my words.”

Azriel turned at this. They had never really spoken about what she’d endured at Eris’s hands, or the many ugly iterations of it they’d suffered over the centuries, but he would never— _never_ —forget what it felt like that day in Autumn when he found her lying in her own blood, the leaves all around her trampled to indicate that someone else had gotten there before him and done nothing to help her.

“What about Graysen?” he asked, choking down the cold rage that swelled at the memory of the boy’s smug face after he’d doused Azriel with faebane.  _“That’s for laying your filthy hands on me,”_  he’d snarled.  _“And for the disgusting way you look at Elain.”_

“Vassa’s put a bounty on his head, and Tamlin’s turning his territory inside out looking for him. It won’t be long until he’s found, and I don’t envy him when he is.”

“They can’t kill him,” Azriel said automatically, and Mor’s brows rose.

“Well if they won’t, I will,” she said with fierceness. “You could have died because of him!”

“I know,” he said, coaxing his expression into one of cold neutrality. “But he was Elain’s betrothed once; it would distress her to see him publicly executed. I think after everything she’s been through, we owe it to her to spare her from that indignity.”

Mor gave a soft, knowing smile that had Azriel’s stomach winding into serpentine knots.

“The world does not deserve you or your kindness, Az.”

He cleared his throat and turned back to the window, his shadows warning him as she came to stand at his side, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I was so worried,” she admitted softly after a long beat of silence. “That I would never see you again.” she paused. “And that I would never get a chance to explain myself and fall on your mercy.”

Azriel’s whole body tightened. He’d been dreading this conversation, even if part of him had prayed for it to come for thirty odd years.

“Az,” she said, gripping his arm to turn him towards her. She was tall for a female, but he was taller still, and she had to tip her chin slightly to meet his gaze. She looked no more than a girl at this angle, and the pleading in her eyes made him feel nauseous. Whatever she thought she owed him, she didn’t. “I know this is centuries overdue, but I want to explain—“

“You don’t have to,” he interrupted quickly, not wanting to get into all of it when he was already feeling so raw about Elain.

Misinterpreting his dismissal for dismay, she shook her head, mouth a firm line, like an arc of red ribbon pulled taut across her face.

“Yes, I do,” she said. “I know that you’ve always perhaps—“ she broke off, clearly uncomfortable. “I wanted to tell you why we never—why  _I_  never—“

She paused, heaving a distressed sign before darting a quick glance up at him. He tried to keep his expression neutral for her sake, thinking that perhaps she needed to say the words out loud, but for once his shadowy insouciance failed him, and her expression dropped into one of confusion, then realization, then alarm.

“You know?”

Azriel bit his lip before nodding.

“For how long?”

“Since Rhys was Under The Mountain.”

She looked torn asunder by both confusion and regret.

“How?”

"You came home from a night out and lay in my bed, and you still smelled—“

He broke off at her flush, not wishing to make things any worse than they already were.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He looked up, confused.

“It was your secret to tell, Morrigan. I would not cleave it from you. I figured when you were ready, you would tell me yourself.”

She bit her now-trembling lips.

“Az, I—“

He cut her off, not able to bear watching this female he had once so loved in pain. After everything he’d put Elain through, after all the tears she’d shed because of him, he didn’t think he could endure it if he made Mor cry, too.

EndFragment

"No, please don’t apologize,” he said, taking both her hands in his. "I’m the one who should be apologizing to you. Mor, I’m sorry. All these years I tried to not—but I should have tried harder. I should have let go, instead of holding you prisoner to my own selfish wants. I know it hurt you to bear it, and I’m sorry.”

Despite his best efforts, Mor let out a choked sob.

“Don’t say that. Don’t even think it. I never—it wasn’t about you, Az. Never. And you have been as dear a friend to me as I ever could have asked for. More dear that perhaps I even deserve.”

“That’s not true,” he said, and she seemed to let out a breath he hadn’t realized she been holding.

“Thank you.“

She reached over and squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, relieved when she smiled then rocking back into renewed discomfort when she bowed her head and let out another choked sob.

“And I’m sorry about Helion,” she said, biting her lip and looking stricken and penitent. "It was selfish, and cruel, and I—I don’t know what I was thinking. I know why you did what you did to Eris, and anyways, I should have talked to you about it, instead of—“

He bowed his head as well. His feelings for Mor—though incredibly complex—had long ago faded from longing to familial admiration, but there was no pretending that her sleeping with Helion hadn’t been a dagger to the gut, even years after his own active desire for her had ebbed.

“I know why you did it,” he said finally, trying not to think of how similar that betrayal had felt to the one that had knifed through him when Elain said Lucien’s name instead of his that night in Spring.

“That doesn’t make it right. I regret hurting you like that, and regret I didn’t apologize for it months ago when I should have. Please, I know I don’t deserve it, but say you forgive me.”

“You know I do,” he told her, wishing he’d had the chance to beg the same from Elain before he’d left. After everything that had happened, he’d give anything to have earned it, to have heard it from her lips even once. “And you also know that I would still do anything for you.”

Mor quirked and eyebrow, face growing mischievous again. She was arguably worse than he was with emotional vulnerability, and he could tell there was something else weighing on her mind besides.

“Anything?“

"Of course.”

_Tread carefully. She knows. She—_

"Then go to Elain and tell her how you feel. Please, Azriel, before it’s too late.”

The shadows’ warning had reached him too late, and Azriel felt rocked back, as if he’d been kicked in the chest. Like a kick, the plea knocked the breath out of him before the pain of the blow swept in. He’d promised himself he would not open that door again, however tempting it was. Now Mor had gone and blown the damn thing off its hinges.

Azriel didn’t speak for a beat, and Mor raised her eyebrows expectantly. He felt his composure fracturing under her weighty gaze, and he blew out a frustrated breath, turning from her and bracing his arms on the stone railing of the balcony.

“She doesn’t care for me in that way, and I won’t burden her the way I burdened you.”

Azriel used a tone he’d hope would brook no argument, and indeed, with anyone else, it likely would have been enough to get them to desist. However, Mor just seemed to take it as a challenge.

"You were never a burden,” she said, touching his shoulder. ‘And I think so many centuries of self-recrimination have blinded you to what everyone else has already seen.“

"And what’s that?”

She gave him a soft, knowing smile.

“I was here with Feyre when Elain— _projected_ herself here. And I have never seen someone so desperate and in pain. No, don’t protest,“ she said, touching his lips when he made to interject. "I realize that you were injured and Lucien was not, and that you’ve likely told yourself again and again that it was Elain’s goodness that pushed her to do as she did. But I heard the way she screamed your name, Azriel, and it was the same way Rhys screamed Feyre’s when Amarantha sought to destroy her, and the same way she screamed his as the cauldron drained him. Elain tore through time and space to save your life. If you do not think that is proof enough of her feelings for you, perhaps you’re not the spy that Rhys thinks you are.”

Azriel felt every muscle in his body tense, her words a cyclone threatening to pull him off his feet.

"They are mates,” he said finally. He didn’t want to admit to Mor what had happened in Spring, the way he’d thrown himself at Elain and how—even at the height of senseless passion—it had been Lucien she was thinking about. "Elain already has a mate,” he repeated, as much to remind himself as Mor. “And truth be told, he is a better male than me. Who am I to—”

“It doesn’t matter who the better male is,” Mor told him. “It is about who is the better male for  _her_.”

“She doesn’t want me.”

“You can’t know that until you ask her. And for the record, Azriel of Macar, I have never known a male better than you, and nor do I think I ever will.”

She leaned up, brushing a soft, familial kiss across his lips.

“Do this for me,  _kardesim_ , and let there be no more secrets between us.”

His heart warmed at the Illyrian endearment.  _My brother._  It felt so much more fitting than all the others he’d once hoped she’d call him, and it eased a tightness that had twinged in his chest for close to 600 years.

She kissed him again, this time on each cheek.

“I think you have company,” she breathed, indicating as Elain slipped into the room, looking pale but resolute. “I will see you later.”

Mor flashed him a final reassuring smile before turning her amber gaze on Elain and offering her the same.

Azriel steeled his courage and turned to face her as Mor slipped from the room, and he was rocked back by how unbearably beautiful and fierce she looked, like a titan dressed in silk. She studied him with the same intensity, and everything he’d meant to say to her slipped from his head, leaving him speechless in her towering wake.

His shadows, too, seemed stunned into silence, and their familiar hiss was replaced with a distant humming in his ears as she approached, squaring up as if he were a foe that needed vanquishing. He took a not so steady breath and turned to face her, ready to fall on her sword at the first command.

“Elain,” he said, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “You’re awake.”

* * *

It had taken Feyre and Nesta what felt like a lifetime to get Elain dressed, but when they finally stepped back and prompted her to look into the mirror, she could not help but be pleased with what she saw.  She wore the newest night court fashion, one that Feyre has started, where a diaphanous swath of silk was wrapped around the body like a one-shouldered cloak and worn over a sheer, embroidered gown. Once Elain would have been mortified to show so much skin, but she now found that her power was her armor, and that she required little material to feel adequately clothed.

Her hair Nesta had swept off her face with golden combs, arranged to resemble of corona of light, or perhaps a crown of spikes. They made Elain feel powerful and sure, and if Rhys and Cassian’s reactions to seeing her were any indication, she looked powerful, too.

It was Cassian she requested  fly her down to the villa, and he did so obligingly, though they didn’t speak on the assent. It was only when he set her down in the hall outside the door of the he told her that Azriel was recovering in that he spoke.

“Whatever it is you want to tell him, Ellie, please be gentle. I know he seems cold and distant sometimes, but deep down Az is actually fragile.”

Elain smiled, touching Cassian’s cheek with affection. Here was the male no one but their family ever got to see. Here was the male, she thought, who’d won over her sister. What he’d said about Azriel applied to Nesta as well, she realized. Perhaps it had been so many centuries of loving Az that had allowed Cassian to see and fall for Nesta so quickly.

“It’s not in my nature to be cruel,” she assured him, and he gave a rueful smile, as if embarrassed for implying she would be.

“Thank you,” he said, and with that he slipped back through the open window and into the skies.

Steeling her courage, Elain forewent the courtesy of knocking and softly admitted herself into Azriel’s room, just in time to see Mor murmur something to him in Illyrian and brush a soft kiss on his cheek.

Pain swished in Elain’s belly,  but she held it at bay as Mor offered her a small smile and left. It was then that Azriel turned to look at her, his beautiful face awash with its  usual suffuse pain.

“Elain,” he said, keen eyes assessing her—as they always did—for injury. “You’re awake.”

There was something else in his eyes now, too, though. Something deep and knowing that churned her soul like it were soft earth in the garden, stirring in preparation of being planted.

Not willing to dissect the feeling for what she knew it was, not wanting to continue to dance around the issue as they’d done for so many weeks now, she simply spoke, baldly and without artifice.

“Did you mean what you said that night on the schooner?”

She’d been so sure she knew the answer to that, but after seeing the look he was giving Mor, hearing her murmur an Illyrian endearment Elain could only guess at, she felt her nerve failing.

Azriel’s eyebrows gathered in the middle in a gesture of unmuted pain.

“You know I didn’t.“

Elain nodded then pressed on, willing her courage not to crumble underneath the weight of breathless expectation.

“Then why did you kiss me in Spring?

Azriel hung his head before glancing back up at her, looking like a male destined for the gallows.

"Because you destroy me,” he breathed.

Elain felt the foundation on which she stood cracking, bowed by a surging disappointment. Reading her expression, he quickly continued, throat working with the effort of getting the words out.

"Because you have broken and remade me and I—“ he paused to catch his breath. "I adore you completely. You are brave and clever and kind and beautiful and I— when I am with you, Elain, I am a better male. You make me what to  _be_  a better male. It’s why I went after you in Hybern, and why I couldn’t go back to Velaris when you asked. Because I would follow you, Elain Archeron, to the very ends of this world, and into whatever darkness lays beyond it.”

“You care for me?” she croaked, throat tight.

“More than anything,” he said, voice a wavering confession. “ And I’m sorry, for all the pain I’ve caused you. I was jealous and selfish, and it was wrong of me. I know you’ve chosen him, but I am still sorry I ever burdened you with my—"

He broke off as she extended a hand, letting a tendril of his power wrap around her slender wrist like an onyx bracelet. His nostrils flared, and she knew what the shadows were telling him. A mated female no longer.

“You—“ he began, looking almost in pain at what she was telling him. Like a dog who’d been offered a bone knowing that if he came close enough to accept it, he’d likely only get a kick instead.

She took a step towards him, and he flinched slightly, though he didn’t retreat from her.

“I care for Lucien, I always have and I always will. But what I feel for him is pale as mist when compared to what I feel for you.”

She could see his desperation to believe her warring with centuries of ingrained self-loathing in his bright eyes.

“What are you saying?” he croaked.

"You know what I’m saying.” She touched his cheek, and relief flooded through her when he didn’t pull away. “I love you, Azriel. You, and only you. Only  _ever_ you.”

“The cauldron—“ he began, pulling her hand away.

She waved it in dismissal.

"Damn the cauldron, and damn fate.”

“But…you’re a seer.”

She laughed, feeling a joy that she hadn’t let herself fully acknowledge bubble up.

“Is that really all you can think to say? It doesn’t matter; when I look into my future, you are the only thing I wish to see.”

“Why?”

There was stark terror in his eyes now, and her heart broke for him, for the neglected boy he’d been. She could see that boy in his face even now, yearning for something he’d been told he’d never deserve.

“Besides the fact that you are loyal, and brave, and an almost unbearably handsome?”

He choked out a laugh at this, and she brushed a tear from his cheek, the way he’d done for her so many times before.

“Because you saw me, even when my family could not. Because you have never asked me to be anything other than what I am. Because I feel as you do: with you, I am my favorite version of myself. Please, Az, put me out of my misery and tell me you feel the same.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes fluttering closed. She’d never noticed it before, but he had enviably long lashes, and they brushed his damp cheeks

“I can’t steal your destiny from you, even if I am tempted.”

“Oh, hang destiny. What great romance is there in loving as you’re told? The cauldron may have chosen Lucien, but I chose you. I always will.”

She grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands up so she could kiss his scarred palms before running the uneven skin stretched over the backs against her own satiny cheeks.

She felt his body tremble, and her eyes slipped closed as he leaned down to brush his lips to hers. It was an almost chaste gesture, and though she yearned to deepen it, to tear through his hesitation and restraint until she could hold his fragile, burning heart in her hands and show him how treasured he was, she held still, meeting the light pressure of his lips with her own.

After a moment he pulled away, breathing heavily before he kissed her again. This time she felt his tongue slide against hers, and she bowed into him in a way she hoped would make her intentions explicit. He made a soft, lulling noise from the back of his throat, pulling back again and studying her, his fingers tracing her rose-tinted lips.

"Have you ever—“ he began, clearly trying to insure he was reading her overtures correctly.

She nodded, feeling delightfully exposed under his gaze. She was nervous, too, she realized, but the tenderness he bent on her made the feeling one of exhiliration rather than apprehension.

“Yes,” she said, voice slightly breathless.

The judgment she’d half-feared was absent in his expression, and she let out a relieved puff of air. In fact, he looked relieved, as he were unable to bear the idea of hurting her for even a moment. She watched his throat work as his eyes fltted down, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. Not embarrassment, she realized, but a slow-burning desire, finally allowed to be brought to boil.

"And you want to—

She ran a palm up his chest, sliding it against the smooth leathers he wore and into his silken hair. Giddy and terrified, she looked at him slowly through her lashes. It was so different than it had been in that darkened hallway, slower and yet so much more sensuous.

“Yes”, she whispered, eyes flicking between his eyes and lips. “ Azriel, yes.” His gaze was hooded, his mouth slightly parted in anticipation. They shared a breath as she leaned and kiss him, eyes still open. She didn’t want to miss his reaction, and he didn’t disappoint. She could feel the frightened bird wing’s beat of his heart under her palm, and she watched his eyebrows synch as his mouth worked hers open for his delectation.

At this she did close her eyes, the hunger they’d shared in that darkened hallway in Spring growing molten and melding into something entirely new. She could taste the mint on his breath as his tongue coaxed hers into a tantalizing game of cat and mouse, urging her to play and then eluding her when she got close enough to try.

After a moment, he brushed his nose against hers, his scarred hand reaching to pull the halo of gilt pins from her hair as his teeth found the blunted tip of her ear.  

“I could die here,” she groaned, running a palm down his torso.

He kissed her temple, her ear, her jaw.

"Please don’t,” he said, his voice heated and low. “You and I are just getting started.”

She could see the words for what it was: more than mere sexual innuendo. It was an invitation to start an adventure together, and the quiet joy in it trailed dizzying delight through her.

His fingers danced from where they’d been nestled in her unbound hair cradle her jaw before sliding down the curve of her neck until they brushed the the pin which held the silky shawl that was draped diagonally across her body in place.

“Will you take this off for me?” he breathed, voice a comingling of temptation and apprehension. She nodded mutely, and Azriel let his fingers slip from the pin, eyes glazed.

She was confused for a moment, and it was only when she glanced up into his heated stare that she realized he wished to watch her disrobe, to take ownership in the gesture. She opened the clasp of the hummingbird pin, letting the shawl flutter to the ground. There was a beat of silence that had Elain biting her lip, but then Azriel traced a hand down her bare arm and swore softly.

He surveyed her form that was now almost entirely visible, save for strategic clusters of crystal detailing around her breasts, across her stomach, and between her legs, obscuring the silken underthings she wore beneath. It was not so unlike, she realized, from some of the gowns she’d worn in spring. But this was different: those she’d been asked to wear; this she’d chosen for herself, hoping that it would lead her to this exact moment, standing in front of Azriel with his jaw hanging slightly slack.

“ _Elain_ ,” he whispered roughly, tracing the underside of her otherwise bare right breast with a finger and earning a delighted shutter for his efforts. He drew a lazy circle, watching as her nipple peaked before swearing again.

"Take this off as well,” he almost begged, meeting her gaze now. “I would see you dressed only in your skin.”

“I would see you first,” she said, running a hand up his chest, “Although—"

She eyed the complicated buckles holding his leathers in place, and he gave a low, heated laugh, guiding her hands to the first of the straps and helping her to unfasten them. When the jerkin hung open over his dark under tunic, she reached to untuck it and pulled them both off.

“Wings,“ he breathed, guiding her hands around his waist, their breath mingling as her fingers found the hidden buttons beneath each wing joint. He watched her as she worked them free, eyes alight with wicked promises.

When both had been completely undone he bent obligingly, allowing her to pull the jerkin over his head, rumpling his hair as it swished to the floor.

“Now this,” she breathed, running  both hands under his shirt and hissing in pleasure at the heat of his skin. Usually it was cool to the touch, but under her machinations, it had grown pleasantly warm, and she felt an answering warmth flush her own skin.

He did as she commanded, and she let out an awed exhale as she ran her hands up his smooth chest and across his broad shoulders. Vassa had been right; he really was staggering. He stood still as a statues as her hands exploring. Not sure what she most wanted to touch first, she traced the Illyrian marks flowing over his pectorals like inked shadows before following the grooves between each of his stomach muscles, then the ribboned bands of his obliques. Her pulse trilled in anticipation of seeing them when he wasn’t wearing trousers.

She reach up to trace his collarbone before skating her palms down his rippling laterals and around his trim waist to his back. She reveled in the way his muscles coiled under her touch before she arced up, pressing into him as she traced  the ultra-sensitive underside of each wing.

He swore and bowed into her touch, and she felt whatever tether he had on himself fray and snap.

He kissed her fiercely, fingers grappling at both shoulders of her gown, where the sheer fabric gave way to the bare skin of her back. She went for the laces of his britches, loosening then with an ease that surprised her.

He snarled softly onto her mouth, and she could feel the vibrations of it thrumming through his chest. In a quick, practiced motion, he had her wrist shackled, pulling her away from her task as he pulled her into his arms.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, and she heard the sheer silk tear into two under his sure hands.

“I liked that dress,” she protested lightly, and he laughed, guiding her towards the made bed.

“Rhys can fix it for you. He’ll never admit it, but he’s an excellent seamstress.”

She choked out a laugh as Azriel reverently peeled the halved remnants down her bare arms. She heard his breath catch.

“Elain,” he groaned, eyes slithering from her arched neck to her heaving chest and finally between her legs, where the scrap of silk there had been soaked through with her desire.

Embarrassed, Elain tried to close them, but Azriel gently pushed her knees apart, eyes glazed.

He studied her for a moment with unchecked hunger before his eyes flitted back to hers.

"Have you ever let a male lick you?”

“He brushed his fingers between her legs to make his meaning explicit.

She bucked a little at the pleasing sensation and shook her head.

Intercourse with Grayson had always been loving but brief, and she’d been too embarrassed by her own body to ever let herself explore what could be possible.

Reading her expression, Azriel gave her a supplicating look as he tucked some hair behind her ear.

"Will you let me?”

“Yes,“ she breathed, and she could feel his answering smile on his lips.

"I am going to bring you such pleasure,” he said in purred promise, his boots vanishing with a flick and his trousers still hanging loosely off his hips

She felt something cool brush her peaked breasts, and she realized after a moment they were shadows. She writhed in delight at the contrast of their touch against her skin.

“I didn’t realize you could—”

“They are at my command,” he said, kissing her neck. “They go where I will them.” She took sharp inhale as another brushed against her through her undergarments, the cool touch a contrast to the heat pooling there and sparking hundreds of new nerve endings to life.

With a flick of his wrist, they dissipated, replaced by Azriel’s warmth as he slid behind her, his fingers playing across her throat so he could angle her chin with his thumb and grant himself access to a particular spot on her throat.

"How I am going to worship you,” he breathed, canting her forwards onto the bed and trailing kisses down her spine that had her arching her back.

She never imagined, in the few dozen times she’d been with Graysen, that it could be like this, and that she could feel so—

Lips still moving, Azriel knelt, pulling down her underthings and swearing under his breath at the view this angle afforded him. 

“I should not be so surprised,” he breathed. “but you perfection here as well.” She flushed at the naked heat in his tone as he trailed a finger down her center. “I have never been so tempted by anything in my life.”

He pressed a gentle hand to her back to change the angle of her hips before purring, “And I suspect you will taste even better than you look,  _askim.”_

He ran his hands reverently up her shins before gripping her at the knees and lifting her easily to his eager mouth.

Elain was too taken with the sudden sensation to scream as his tongue worked from the pearl at the top of the vee—a new and treasured fount of sensation—all the way to the swath of thin, sensitive skin at the back. It was a place so intimate and hidden Elain could never have imagined allowing someone to touch, but with Azriel she felt utterly safe.

She could feel his biceps flexing against her calves as he held her in place and worked her with his mouth, and she found herself ascending a spiraling pleasure with increasing speed. His shadows brush her hips as they whispered in his ears, seeming to tell him that she was close.

In a single motion, he set her feet back onto the lush carpet and flipped her onto her back, finishing the job with lips and teeth as well as tongue.

She felt her body tightened and then release, a small sigh escaping her as the sensation spread.

Climax was not the jagged thing romance novels had always described, something that could fracture or explode. This was smooth, unending, like a storm churning across a previously-calm sea.

“Az,” she breathed, threading her hands through his hair to reorient herself the tide of it ebbed and flowed around her.

“You are exquisite,” he breathed, kissing her neck and tugging at her earlobe, skin warm and inviting against hers. 

When she finally felt reality settle back into place around her, she reached to unlace his trousers, but he gently caught her wrist pushed her hand away.

"Not yet.”

“Why?” she breathed, squirming as he traced a finger down the line of her navel. “I’m ready.”

“I can tell,” he said, a sweet, low humor in his voice. “ But I would know just where to touch you to make you scream first.”

“I think you’ve already found it,” she said, bucking in emphasis as his fingertips grazed the pearl between her thighs.

“Yes, this is one,” he agreed, nipping her ear. “But with you I’m greedy. I want to know them all.“

He touched her in the same spot again before driving two fingers into her with slow but delicious intent.

"I’m not sure I understand what you—”

She stopped, muscles tensing as his questing fingers brushed a particular spot and ecstasy fluttered through her low belly.

“There,“ he breathed, allowing her to rock against his fingers as he flexed them against the same interior spot again. Another surge of primal bliss thrummed through her. “It’s deep.”

"Is that good?” She choked, her grip on reason loosening as his thumb worked the bundle of nerves on the downstroke.

His eyes glinted with what she realized was male smugness.

“With me? Yes.”

Not wanting to come apart without him this time, Elain sat up, driving her hands into his hair, his arms wrapping around her easily, making her feel safe 

“Would you ride, my love?” he breathed, hand on her hips as he kissed the valley between her breasts.

She bit her lip, try to numb the deafening awareness of her own inexperience which rang in her eyes.

“Would you like me to?” she asked, trying not to sound bashful. “I’ve never _—_ ”

“I would have you feel comfortable,” he assured her. “But I think you might enjoy how easily I could pleasure you were you astride me.”

The invitation send a languorous heat washing through her, making her core tighten.

She kissed him in affirmation, his strong hands lifting her into his lap. When she was settled comfortably against him, she took the opportunity to run her fingertips along the top ridge of either wing. Azriel shuddered, and she could feel the silken steel of him pressed between them twitch. 

In answer, her took both breasts in his hands, thumbs working her nipples in  a rough caress his tongue then soothed. She groaned and tugged his hair, grip tightening when his canines brush her nipple.

“It should be illegal,” he breathed, working against her tight grip. “For one female to have breasts this perfect. It seems unfair to all the others.”

“You are sweet to tease,” she said, moaning a second time when he went back to kneading them in his strong hairs.

“I am not teasing, сакана,” he assured her, pulling her against him so she could feel him desire. “The goddess of beauty would weep with envy if she saw your breasts.”

Purring her contentment, Elain pushed said breasts against his firm chest as she surged forward to kiss him again. Keeping her left hand at his wing, the other ran down the ridges of his stomach, intending to finally touch him the way he had her. She loosened his trousers only for them to disappear into smoke, leaving him bare and achingly ready under her hands. Her first stroke was unsure,  but spurred by his groans, she brushed her thumb along the top, and he swore quietly. Pleased by his reaction, she made to do it again, but he grabbed her wrist, panting against her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly flustered. "I didn’t—”

He laughed against her lips.

“Were I to let you continue, this will be over far too quickly, And I don’t intend to find my pleasure until I am very,  _very_  deep inside of you. And,” he breathed, eying her mouth with hunger. “Until you have found yours…repeatedly.”

His grip relaxed, and she ran her hands back into his hair as he skated a palm down her spine. She felt his bicep flex as he used the arm he had around her to lift her up. She marveled at the ease with which he was able to support her weight as he positioned himself. She mewed when she felt him deliberately brush the head against the pearl between her thighs several times in a swishing motion.

“So responsive, my fawn,” he breathed, and she could feel his lips curving against hers. She expected to feel the press of him inside her, but when it didn’t come, she opened her eyes to find him studying her in gentle reverence. Her heart swelled at the awe in his expression, at the question he didn’t ask but whose answer he would wait for regardless.

She pressed her forehead to his and nodded, kissing him as he gently loosened his grip on her back and she sank onto him in a single, fluid exhale.

For a moment neither of them moved, just shared several breaths. Elain could feel the muscles in his stomach flexing as he acclimated to the sensation and allowed her to do the same.

She opened her eyes to find her was watching her. It was the tenderest look, not as if she were fragile, but rather priceless; a treasure he’d never allowed himself to even want, let alone possess.

“I love you,” she breathed, hands still around his neck as she began to swish her hips.

His eyes screwed shut at the words, hands falling to her hips. She kissed the corners of his eyes, lips brushing away a soft tear at each.

“Say it again,” he begged, and she lifted her hips and sank down a second time as she cupped his cheeks with her small hands.

“I love you.

She traced her hands down his wings and he groaned.

"Azriel, I love you.”

At this he let out a quiet, choked sob, and she kissed that away, too, pressing closer to him as they led each other to quiet, blinding ecstasy.

* * *

Elain woke the next morning around dawn, body sore but heart full. Azriel had made good on his promise, and she’d lost count of the number of times she’d climaxed after the second. Feyre had made vague reference to a fae male’s stamina in bedAfterwards they’d laid in a loving tangle, trading murmured confessions until night-sweet exhaustion swept in and claimed them both.

She unfurled from her current position like a preening cat, her fingers brushing something silken stretched underneath her naked body. When it shifted slightly at her touch, she started, bolting up.

“I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly, scrambling to get her weight off his outstretched right wing. “i didn’t realize I was—“

Azriel gave a sleep-rumpled smile, letting the wing curl around her and pull her to him.

“They’re strong,” he assured her, eyes glittering emerald-veined amber as he took in her mussed hair, her pink cheeks.

She glowed under his careful attention, reaching up to trace his sharp jaw.

“Last night was—“ she began, and when she realized she didn’t have the words to describe it in a way that didn’t sound silly or verbose, she trailed off.

“Yes,” he agreed. “It was.”

“I had no idea it could feel so—“ she began again, and he gave a distinctly male smirk.

However, after a moment of studying her the look faded to one of reverence, and he coaxed her hand around his neck, bringing them closer.

“Neither did I,” he assured her. “Not even close.”

Blushing even harder, she reached up to touch one the taloned tips of his wings.

“Feyre and Mor insist that an Illyrian male’s wingspan is correlated to other important parts of his anatomy,” she said, biting her lip to keep in a girlish smile. “They also say your wings are the biggest.”

He gave her a soft laugh, bending to kiss her.

“And what do you think?”

“I think they were right,” she said, smile morphing to a soft ‘oh’ shape as he touched a particular spot on her neck. “But I don’t ever intend to tell them. Rhys and Cassian would both grow jealous and bitter, and who has the time for that.”

He huffed another laugh against her now tingling skin.

“I like this side of you,” he said, pulling away to run a finger down her pert nose. “Who would have guessed Elain Archeron had such a bawdy sense of humor? And don’t worry about Rhys and Cass—they both already know.”

“And do they know that you’re also the funniest?”

At this he flashed her a blinding smile, all of his gleaming teeth on display as his hazel eyes caught alight with crackling joy. She’d once mused that were Azriel to ever truly smile it would break her heart, and she’d been right. It made every part of her ache, and it was the most exquisite of tortures.

At seeing her expression the look faded slightly, as if he was afraid he’d scared her.

“What?” he said as she scraped her hands through his glossy dark hair.

"You are so beautiful,” she breathed.

He let out a soft huff, and noise of relief and polite dismissal.

"I’m am nothing but shadow compared to you.”

She held up her hand, allowing a tendril a his dark power to weave through her fingers and around her wrist.

“What do they tell you?” she asked, trying to understand just how it was they spoke to him.

He smiled again, this one a quieter, more lovely thing.

"They tell me many things.”

“What do they tell you about me?”

He considered, a wisp of oil dark shadow ruffling the hair above his ear.

“That your power is maturing, and your mastery of it growing. That your gifts are going to rival a High Lord’s before long. Exceed them, even. I don’t know of any fae who can perform that kind of extraordinary magic.”

She gave a coy smile, pleased beyond reason at his frank tone. Not a compliment meant to flatter, just a bare statement of fact.

"Anything else?”

He considered, gaze dancing across her face.

“That while you will always be his mate, you and he will never be a mated pair. That your are—free from entanglement.”

“But I’m not free,” she said, tightening her grip in his hair. "My entanglement has just shifted. If you’ll have me, that is. I’m far from perfect.”

He closed his eyes, and she could see the quiet joy trying to wrestle itself free in his expression.

“You honor me,” he breathed. “I hope one day to prove myself worthy of it.”

“You already have, Az,” she said, touching his cheek to win back his gaze. “Many times over.”

Seemingly overcome, he surged forward to kiss her, seeking to silently speak the words he hadn’t yet said.

“Elain, I—”

“I know,” she said, touching her finger to his lips. "You don’t have to say it now, or ever, if you don’t want. I know.”

To reassure him, she ran a hand down the innermost curve of his wing, and he groaned

“Are they that sensitive?” she asked.

Yes. He said, shuddering in delight as she followed a faint tracery of veins illuminated by the early morning light. "The first time you touched them I almost lost my mind.”

She hummed in aroused contentment.

“Could you find your pleasure just from this?”

He considered.

“I’ve never let anyone touch them for long enough to find out.”

“Would you let me?”

She trailed her free hand down his quivering abdomen to find him hard against her hand. She gripped him in silent invitation, and he took it, urging her onto her side and sliding in the hilt.

“Yes,” he breathed in her ear, using her hips to slide her body up and down on his. “But not right now. Now I need this. To feel you—gods, Elain—I will never get used to it.“

She mewed as he gently rolled her onto her stomach and drove in deeper, hitting the swath of ecstasy buried below her navel.

Falling to her elbows, she try to keep her fracturing composure intact long enough to revel in his exquisite masculine energy, in the way his smooth stones pressed against her backside and his balsam fir scent wrapped around her.

 _Home_ , she thought. His scent had always felt like home to her, and know she knew, despite Lucien and the Cauldron and all its cruel, divine plans, she’d been right. Azriel was home.

She reveled in his light roughness, in the way he tugged her hips flush to his on every downstroke, the muscles in his legs flexing to maintain the fierce pace. 

She finished first and he followed her several minutes later, though he remained inside of her when it was over, swishing his hips periodically and sending several more waves of pleasure down her legs.

Finally he pulled away, taking her with him to the bathing room and drawing a bath. The tub was enormous—large enough for wings, she realized—and he urged her to get in with him, tugging her into his lap with arms twined around her as they lapsed into a hazy, comfortable silence.

“Do you think the others know?” she asked finally. “I wasn’t very subtle in coming here.”

She could feel his laughter thrum through her ribcage, and she relaxed farther into him.

“Mor is a horrid gossip, as is Cassian. I’m afraid if you wished to keep this a secret, it won’t be one for long.”

"Of course I don’t,” she said, fiddling with his fingers. They were so long an elegant. If he didn’t play the piano forte, it would be a waste of great potential. “But I rather detest when people make a fuss, and our family seems to make a louder one than most.”

He laughed again.

“One of the many reasons we are well-matched,  _сакана_.”

Her heart swelled at his tone, even if the word itself was foreign to her.

“Illyrian?” she asked, still admiring his hands.

“Yes,” he said.

“Sakana,” she said, trying to word out. “What does it mean?”

He smiled, kissing her ear.

“Darling.”

“Will you teach me more?”

He settled back in the tub, pulling her closer.

“What would you like to know?”

“How about  _Те cакам_?”

It was it was he’d told her before passing out in Autumn. She hadn’t had time to ask Rhys and Cassian before she’d come. He stiffened slightly before adjusting her in his arms.

“I love you,” he breathed quietly, and she felt tears spring up as she rotated to look at him over her shoulder.

He looked almost guilty at the admission, but seeing her glassy eyes he softened.

“Of course I love you,” he breathed, brushing a joyous tear off her cheek. “Forgive me that I did not have to courage to say it before.”

“I don’t care if you never say it again,” she said, touching his cheek. “I only care that it’s true.”

“It is true. And I will tell you every day for the rest of our lives if you’ll let me.”

She gave a choked sob, pushing forward to kiss him. After several seconds of the aggravating angle, she turned to sit in his lap properly, teeth and tongue working in furious tandem to speak her truth to him.

“Not that I’m objecting to this,” he said, groaning when she brushed against him. “But if we stay here, the others will eventually come looking for us.”

She gave an embarrassed laugh which he return with a dazzling one of his own.

“So shall we get dressed and head them off ourselves? If I have to suffer Cassian’s taunts, I’d prefer to be fully clothed for it.”

“No,” Elain said after a moment of contemplation, tracing his tattoo. He sagged a little, and she amended, “Not yet. Take me away first. I want time to have you to myself before my sisters start trying to plan our wedding.”

She flushed.

“Not that you wish to marry me, I just—“

He cut her off with a gentle kiss.

“Say no more, my queen. I will take you away for as long as you like.”

Prompting her to get out, he wrapped her in a towel and ushered her back into the bedroom, where a fresh set of garments waited. She looked at him in question, and he gave a sheepish shrug.

“Nuala is very…intrepid. It’s what makes her such a good spy; she’s almost annoyingly anticipatory. Now come, get dressed. I know just where to take you.”

“And where’s that?” Elain asked, slipping into her undergarments and sighing he pressed up behind her to do up the buttons of the simple gown.

“Rosehall,” he breathed onto her neck.

“What’s that?”

He gave a roguish wink, and it was so uncharacteristic and so boyishly pleased that were she not already in love with him, it would have been all she needed to fall.

“Come with me,  _askim_ , and I will show you. And after that, I’ll take you to the Steppes, and then Southern Isles, and to Adriata and The old Weaver’s Wood. We can go away for one hundred years if you like. If i am with you, I care very little where I am.”

She smiled, intrigued and utterly infected by his joy.

“Very well,” she said, accepting his hand and giving an undignified squawk of joy when he pulled her into his arms and unfurled his wings. “Take me away,  _сакана_.”


	11. Part XI: Epilogue

##  **Previously on Tender Jar…**

_Elain nodded._

_“Then why did you kiss me in Spring?_

_Azriel hung his head before glancing back up at her, looking like a male destined for the gallows._

_“Because you destroy me,” he breathed.  "Because you have broken and remade me and I—“ he paused to catch his breath. "I adore you completely. You are brave and clever and kind and beautiful and I—when I am with you, I am a better male. You make me what to **be**  a better male. It’s why I went after you in Hybern, and why I couldn’t go back to Velaris when you asked: because I would follow you, Elain Archeron, to the very ends of this world, and into whatever darkness lays beyond it.”_

* * *

##  **Four Years Later…**

Azriel felt the weight of the box in his pocket all through his flight back to Velaris, felt it grow heavier and heavier as he approached home.

_Home._

It was still so delightfully strange to have finally have a place that felt right, even six months after purchasing the secluded villa on the Sidra’s far bank and asking Elain to move into it with him. It was still somewhat hard to believe that she’d said yes when he’d asked her, and still so wondrously unfamiliar to come back after long and grueling missions to find her there waiting for him. And it was still so joyously surprising ever time she told him she loved him, even though she did so often.

Yes, he was coming home, but it was so much more than brick and stone. It was her. It was his Elain that have finally given him a place in the world, and for that he would be eternally grateful.

He touched the small box in his pocket again as he made his final descent, feeling a dizzying jolt as his fingers brushed its smooth velvet lid. He’d spent the last six months searching for its contents, scouring Prythian for something that suited. He finally found what he’d been looking for in a small shop in Adriata during a mission for Rhys, and he’d known at once it was the one. After his business with Tarquin had concluded, he’d gone back to the shop to buy it before flying home, composure slightly strained but heart incredibly full.

He knew it was months overdue—perhaps even years—but he’d needed time to acclimate to the notion that all of this was not some hazy dream, that after centuries of isolation and pain, he was no longer alone. Hopefully he never would be again.

He landed without a sound in the villa’s sleek shadow to find Elain just where he’d left her three days before, at the very heart of the resplendent gardens, her hair a wild mess and the sleeves of her summer gown rolled back. She had a wrench in one hand as she tinkered with a nozzle on one of the grand fountains she’d installed herself. Others always gushed over Elain’s talent for gardening, but this was the side of her Azriel most adored: Elain the landscape architect, Elain the brilliant engineer, who’d transformed a few modest flower beds into a vibrant paradise.

She’d yet to notice him, and his heart swelled as he watched her adjust one of the fountain’s spigots and squeal in delighted surprise as it sprayed her. Laughing, she adjusted it, dancing her fingers through the corrected stream and smiling to herself.

Unable to bear it any longer, Azriel emerged from the shadow of one of the elegant hedges only for Elain to let out a delighted exhale, brushing back the tendrils of hair stuck to her face with sweat as she gave him a lovely, private smile.

“Az,” she breathed, her cheeks pinking as she tried to smooth her rumpled gown. “You’re back.”

He smiled at her attempt and pulled her hands away from their fretting, pressing a kiss to each of her palms. She gave a quiet hum of contentment at the gesture before threading her hands into his hair and kissing him gently.

“I hadn’t expected you until tomorrow. I would have cleaned up if I’d known.”

“I thought I’d surprise you,” he said, basking in the warmth of her smile. “And don’t be absurd; you are beautiful as ever.”

She laughed, running her fingers through his hair again the way she always did.

“I’m soaking wet!”

He gave a satisfied male smile as he leaned in to kiss her neck.

“I happen to like you that way.”

He was pleased beyond reason when the comment had her cheeks going pink.

“Don’t start that,” she said, though she angled her head to give him better access to her neck. “Cassian’s taken to coming over unannounced. He could see us.”

“Let him,” Azriel said, breathing in her scent and feeling his body react to it. “Perhaps he’ll learn something useful.”

“Azriel!” Elain said, cheeks deepening to scarlet.

He only laughed, running his knuckle down her smooth skin. Hers was still nowhere near as dark as his was in the summer, but her time in the sun had turned her ivory complexion golden brown, a shade that suited her beauty immensely.

“How I live to see you blush,  _сакана.”_

She responded by running a hand down his left wing just where it joined with the lateral, and he shuddered in delight.

“Careful, Shadowsinger,” she said, tracing the path with her nails. “This is a game we can both play.”

He arched into her touch, choking down another groan as she caressed the arched underside now.

“If this is an invitation to make love to you in that fountain,” he said, pulling her against him so she could feel the effect she was having. “I accept.”

She only laughed and detangled herself, pushing his chest playfully as she retreated to sit on said fountain’s wide lip.

“All good things to those who wait,  _askim_ ,” she told him, and he felt his heart constrict as it always did when she used an Illyrian endearment.

His relationship with his heritage had always been painful and complicated, but she soothed that age-old ache, and under her care, he’d found himself coming to terms with his Illyrian roots in a way that made him finally feel whole.

He was suddenly very aware of the box again, her smile making it feel both a burden and a thrilling promise. He’d planned to wait until tomorrow, but looking at her now, he knew he couldn’t wait another second.

“Do you have plans for the afternoon?” he said abruptly, stringing an arm around her waist again. “I want to take you somewhere.”

“May I bathe first?” she said, laughing and burying her head in his shoulder. “I look like a vagrant. I’m afraid I might smell like one as well.”

“That’s absurd,” he said, gathering her more fully in his arms and preparing to winnow. “You always smell divine. And you are more beautiful covered in dirt than other females are in jewels and silk.”

“Don’t be unctuous,” she said, laughter still gathered at the corners of her eyes.

At this, he laughed too, his nerves making it somewhat tinny.

“Unctuous? You wound me, beloved.”

She only smiled in response, brushing a hand through his hair again.

“Will you at least tell me where we’re going?”

He tugged the shadows around them, summoning the misted wind.

“You’ll see when we get there,” he said, and with that, they disappeared.

They reappeared fifteen minutes later in a small clearing, it’s expanse dotted with an old, burned-out cottage and a riot of flowers and colorful shrubs. It was clear by their arrangement in the clearing that they’d originally been planted with a careful hand, but had since been left to grow on their own.

Elain turned on a heel in wonder as she surveyed the place, brows furrowed in concentration until she spotted the cottage, and they arched up in an expression of bittersweet recognition.

“This is where we lived in after Papa lost his fortune,” she said, still in slight awe. “Why did you want to bring me here?”

He took her hand.

“I wanted you to see what had become of your garden.”

She surveyed the wild beauty of it for a moment in silence, fingers errantly brushing the petal of a blood red rose. After a pause she turned back to him.

“Why?”

He didn’t immediately reply, flexing his hand a few times in a effort to steady himself. This was a moment he’d envisioned a thousand times, but seeing her here now, rumpled from her day in the garden and framed by all this untamed beauty, he could barely breathe.

“Because whenever I think about why I love you, I always find myself drawn back to this place, to this time in your life.” He extended both his hands for hers and guided her to sit on a small rock. “You and your sisters had nothing, and yet you still managed to bring all this joy and life here. Look how beautiful it’s grown because of your care.”

Her eyes had grown glassy at his words, but her brows were still furrowed.

“I still don’t think I understand,” she whispered.

“This is who you are, Elain.  _This_  is why I love you. Because you take broken things and you bring them back to life again. You did it with this garden when you had nothing else, and you did it with me, even when your own life had fallen to pieces.” He touched her cheek, brushing away the tear there. "You have a warrior’s heart, My Princess of Thorns, but in a world where so many destroy, you have always chosen to create instead. It is the thing about you which I cherish the most.”

The box had become a brand in his pocket, and his heart hammered as he pulled it free before falling to a knee at her feet.

“What are you doing?” she croaked, joy shimmering behind the tears.

“If you were Illyrian, I would take you to the steppes and present you with the heart of some foul beast, but Feyre tells me this is Mortal custom,” he said. “And I would have you know that I see and love that piece of you as well.”

At this, she began to cry outright, though she was smiling, and Azriel’s heart leapt into his throat at her expression, at that the realization that she might  _actually_ say—

“Elain Domitia Archeron,” he began, taking a steadying breath. “Will you marry me?”

She was silent for a horrifying moment, and his insides became a nest of vipers, snapping and hissing and making him sick. However, he realized after a beat it was only because she’d been trying to master her tears, because the next second she was nodding, a delighted sob bursting from her throat.

“Of course I will marry you,” she breathed. “I would be honored.”

He let out a relieved laugh, slipping the ring onto her finger and pulling her to her feet and into his arms. He felt himself melting,  the steel and fire of him falling to molten metal as she tipped her head back to kiss him.

“I love you,” she breathed when she pulled away, touching his cheek. “And I’ve been waiting for you to ask me. One more month and I was just going to do it myself.”

He laughed, pressing his forehead to hers as he took her left hand, admiring it.

“I had to find something that suited your beauty. Though now that I see it on your finger, I realize nothing could ever compare. Perhaps I was foolish to try.”

“No,” Elain said, looking down that the hammered gold band and the shadowy gray diamond set into its cradle. “It’s perfect.”

She looked back up at him and flashed a blinding smile.

“I can’t believe you thought to bring me here,” she whispered, tracing the line of his jaw in reverence as another tear slipped down her cheek. “You never cease to surprise me.”

“Good,” he said, brushing it away with a knuckle. “Because I have another surprise for you.”

He pulled the hunting knife he’d had sheathed at his hip and showed it to her.

The blade was crafted from stitched shards of diamond, its handle ivory and Adriatan mother-of-pearl that shone in the late afternoon sun.

“It’s also customary in Illyria for a male to give his female a weapon” he explained, presenting the knife to her the same way he’d once presented Truth-teller. “I had this one made for you.”

“It’s exquisite,” she breathed, running a finger down the glinting blade. “What is it called?”

He didn’t immediately speak, his throat too full of his swelling joy to respond.

“Light-Bringer,” he said finally, pressing it into her hand.

“Light-Bringer,” she repeated, studying the exquisite hilt with reverence. “Why Light-Bringer?”

He smiled, brushing her cheek as his throat constricted again.

“Because that is what you are to me: a light in the darkness.”

She smiled down at the gift, brushing a tear from her cheek with a soft, hiccuping sob.

“I love it,” she said, looking up at him. “And you.”

An almost unbearable elation swelled in his chest, and he didn’t fight it when his eyes grew glassy too.

“As I love you,” he said, pressing his forehead to hers. “You are my greatest joy,  _сакана.”_

“And you are mine,” she assured him, pressing onto her tip-toes so she could kiss him before glancing down to admire the knife again. “Will you teach me to use it?”

At this, he smiled, pulling her more fully against him.

“I would say that you are very skilled at handling a blade already.”

His pulse trilled at her flush, then dropped into a lulling drumbeat in his belly when she bit her lip and gave him a coy smile.

“Then take me home so I can put those skills to good use.”

He groaned, the sound turning to a laugh as she pressed into the curve of his body.

“You destroy me when you say things like that, female.”

“I know,” she said, delighted. “That’s why I say them. Take me home, Az, and make love to me.”

He obliged at once, and they were barely through the door before they were pulling at one another’s clothes. She quickly got the upper-hand and he let her have it, not bothering to quiet his moan when she ran her nails down his wings. After four years, she knew precisely where to touch them, and he was hard with three well-placed strokes.

“Elain,” he begged, swearing when her fingers moved to trace the  ridge of muscle just below the topmost bone. “Please, not like this,  _сакана._ I’m afraid I will die of delight.”

“How then,” she breathed onto his mouth, unlacing his trousers and dipping a hand inside them. “Like this?”

Azriel growled his approval, nipping at her lush lower lip as she worked him with her hand. He loved the Elain she became when they were alone, the one beneath all the propriety who had a wicked streak and a sense of humor that would make even Cassian blush.

“Enough teasing, my little witch,” he snarled against her mouth, pulling her into his arms. “I need to be inside of you.”

He carried her to the first door off the foyer, not caring it was a study with no beds or couches in sight. He simply laid her on the lush carpet instead, practically tearing off her clothes in his haste to see her naked.

It still addled his senses how desirable she was. He greedily eyed her breasts, peaked and heaving, before letting his eyes wander down her taut stomach to the perfect peach between her legs. It was rose-tinted and plush as her mouth and nearly as tempting, and he found himself dying for a taste.

“We said no teasing,” Elain said when he began dropping kisses onto her stomach.

“I changed my mind,” he said, pushing her thighs open and feasting on her until she was panting, her skin covered in a glistening sheen of sweat.

He reveled in the pressure of her grip as she tugged his hair and writhed beneath him, and he stayed until he felt her body tighten then release, her sensitive flesh contracting against his tongue. He kissed her mound then did as he’d promised, sheathing himself in a single stroke and groaning when he’d gone deep enough to feel the evidence of her pleasure slick on his stones.

“I love you,” she pleaded, grabbing his hips and pulling him impossibly deeper.

He watched her in awe, trying to wrap his mind around the fact this divine creature somehow found him worthy of such a sentiment.

“And I hope someday,” she said, panting as he bent her leg for leverage and began riding her in earnest. “That you will not look so surprised when I say it.”

He didn’t speak, just buried his face in the crook of her neck, taking in the smell of her skin, her hair, as she cried her pleasure beneath him.

He was close as well, and when he felt himself coming undone inside of her, he imagined a day in which he took no tonics, a day when this might mean more than mere pleasure, might mean the beginning of a joy he’d never even considered before her.

He glanced down to see her studying him with the same reverence, and he knew she’d read his expression and guessed what he was thinking.

“I didn’t know that you wanted—“ she began, her eyes glassy. “You’ve never said of word about it.”

“Before you I didn’t,” he admitted. “And you had not said, either. I didn’t wish to scare you, or make you think you weren’t enough for me.”

She gave a watery smile.

“I feared the same from you. But I’m glad that isn’t the case.”

“With you, I will be happy either way.”

She bit her lip, stroking his cheek.

“I wish I had Feyre’s gifts,” she admitted.

“Why?”

“So I could show you what the Cauldron has shown me on the matter.”

He sat up to better study her.

“The Cauldron showed you—“

She nodded.

“It wasn’t a clear vision, but it was definitely a child.” she leaned up to kiss him. “Our child.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and rested his forehead on her shoulder.

“Ever time I think you could not be more of a blessing, you find a way to surprise me.”

“Good,” she breathed, stroking his hair and soothing something inside of himself he hadn’t realized had grown restless. “I’d hate for you to get bored.”

He smiled and melted into her, letting his head fall to her chest so he could listen to her heart beat. They laid there for a long while is pleasurable silence, content enough to simply be together.

Finally, when the sun started falling lower in the sky, Azriel felt her stirring and sat up, stretching his wings.

“Should we get dressed and tell the others the news?” he asked, heart still full enough to burst. “Cassian knows I meant to ask you when I returned, which means all the others know, too.”

She laughed, though she didn’t let him up when he attempted to detangle himself.

“They can wait one more day,” she said, kissing him lightly. “Tonight I wish to be alone with my future husband.”

* * *

Elain sat at her vanity the following evening, admiring her ring and trying not to cry. It was so unbearably beautiful, such a perfect representation of Azriel’s love for her.  He’d explained, as they’d lain in bed after making love all night, how he’d been scouring Prythian for the right one, and how he’d seen this one in Adriata and known it was what he’d been searching for.

She turned her hand slightly, admiring the diamond in the light, it’s color the exact grey of a stormy sea, the same grey of her sister’s eyes. Unusual, yes, but so suited to Elain and what she most loved. She had thought before she’d seen it that she could not love Az any more, but when he’d presented it to her and showed her just how well he understood her, she felt herself falling even farther.

Her heart swelled at the prospect of a lifetime of such surprises, and of all the deeper depths of her affection for him she’d yet to reach.

“I worry I’ve made a mistake,” Azriel breathed, bracing a hand on either side of her and kissing her neck.

“What?” she said, turning to touch his cheek in alarmed confusion. “Of course you haven’t; it’s divine.”

“Exactly,” he said, nipping at her ear. “I fear you think it’s prettier than I am.”

She relaxed back against his chest, humming her contentment.

“Nothing could ever be as beautiful to me as you are,  _askim,”_ she assured him. “Thank the cauldron you will never age; I need at least an eternity to properly admire that face. And,” she said, turning to tug his bottom lip gently with her teeth. “That warrior’s body.”

He gave a heated laugh.

“Your flattery, while very much appreciated, is unnecessary, my love.”

“I do sometimes wish you were a bit less exquisite,” she admitted, reveling in the feel of his smile against her neck. “I grow tired of warding off females eying you day and night. If Vassa wasn’t likely going to marry Lucien, I don’t think I could resist throttling her for the way she used to ogle you.”

He was still smiling, but she did not miss his slight tense, or what it meant.

“Will you tell him?” he breathed quietly.

She turned to touch his cheek.

“I already have.”

“And?”

She brushed a thumb between his brows to soothe the crease that had formed there.

“He is happy for us,” she assured him. He let out a relieved breath, and she leaned in to brush her nose to his in quiet affection. “I know it was not an easy choice, to fall in love with a female with a mate. Thank you for never thinking less of me for it.”

“It was no choice at all,” he said, kissing her softly. “I would love you in any light, in any world. I am just glad that it has worked out as well as it has. If there is one thing I cannot bear, it is your unhappiness.”

“I’m happy, too,” she admitted. “I would not want him to be miserable on my account. It makes my heart lighter to know that he might someday be as happy as we are.”

“I have no doubt he will,” Azriel said, straightening so she could finish putting on the rest of her jewelry.

“Care to make a wager?” she said, changing the subject.

“Ah there she is, my degenerate gambler. A wager on what?”

“I told Feyre and Mor not to make too big a fuss tonight. Odds on them keeping that promise?”

He laughed, extending a hand and helping her to her feet.

“Very low,” he admitted. “Though I think it might be Cassian and Nesta we ought to be worrying about.”

She laughed. Elain knew that this was a side of Azriel not many people ever saw, and it made it warmed her to know it was a side she got enjoy quiet often.

“I’m intrigued,” she said, running her hands up his chest. “Go on.”

“No one loves a fuss more than Cassian, not even Mor, so he’s likely reveling in the opportunity to drink all of Rhys’s good wine and embarrass us with bawdy jokes.”

“And Nesta?”

Azriel’s expression softened as he touched her cheek.

“If there were anyone on this earth who could love you as much as I do, it would be your sister.”

Elain felt her throat tightening, not that the sentiment, but at the knowledge that Azriel was able to recognize it as the truth. Nesta was not an easy creature to love, but she was still one of the most loving people Elain knew, even if she struggled to show it. That Azriel had seen that, that he respected it, made her love him even more.

“I have to admit it’s sound logic,” she said. “So how about another wager? How long until one of them breaks down and simply admits they love the other?”

“I think we may still have decades to go,” Azriel said with a smile. “They are both stubborn as mules. It’s going to take divine intervention to get one to crack.”

“You say ‘divine intervention’,” Elain said. “I say ‘sisterly manipulation’. Now that I’ve finally gotten you to agree to marry me, they are my new project. I bet we’ll see a mating ceremony before the first frost.”

Azriel tipped his head back and laughed.

“I would say that you’re wrong, but I’m told that a happy wife is a happy life, so for the sake of our future, I won’t bet against you.”

“I’ve trained you well,” she purred, letting her hands fall away from him as she strayed to the balcony and gazed up at the House of Wind. “Shall we?”

“Yes,” Azriel said, advancing as well. “Please. Before I lose what little resolve I have to not tear this gown off you and ride you until we’re both hoarse.”

She flashed him a heated smile over her shoulder.

“All good things, beloved,” she reminded him, smiling as he pulled her into his arms and flew them to the house.

Their family was waiting on the sprawling promenade when they landed, and Elain was barely back on her feet before Feyre and Mor were crushing her into a hug and squealing like children.

“Oh  _finally_!” Feyre said as Mor gushed, “This ring is so divine! Don’t show Amren, she’ll steal it right off your finger.”

Elain beamed and let them fawn before pulling away to allow Cassian to sweep her into an embrace tight enough to hurt, and for Rhys to kiss her cheek and attempt to rustle her hair before being batted away. She accepted Amren’s warm congratulations as well, and then Varian’s, before she turned to face Nesta.

Her sister stood slightly apart, grey eyes still fierce even as her expression gentled.

Elain pressed forward into her waiting embrace, choking down a sob as Nesta ran an elegant hand down her hair.

“I am so happy for you, petal,” she breathed in Elain’s ear. “No one will ever deserve you in my eyes, but I am happy you’ve found someone at least worthy to try.”

“Thank you,” Elain choked, pulling away. “Your approval means the world to me.”

“And to me,” Azriel said, appearing behind her. “Thank you, Nesta.”

He extended a scarred hand for her to shake, and Nesta just looked at it, clearly still wary. Elain felt her breath catch after another second passed without Nesta moving to accept the gesture. Finally, her sister spoke, the fire melting from her gaze.

“I would threaten to destroy you if you ever hurt her,” she said, glancing up at him. “But if there is one thing I know about you, Shadowsinger, it is that you love her as she deserves to be loved.”

Azriel gave a genteel nod of his head even as his hand melted back to his side, and Nesta bit her lip, turning to glance at Cassian in what Elain might almost have described as a request for approval. He gave her a reassuring wink, and she turned back to Azriel, squaring her shoulders.

“And since we are to be family now, I think it would acceptable if we were to embrace, as brother and sister should.”

“Wait, really?” Mor blurted from behind them, but Azriel ignored them, stringing an arm around the eldest Archeron’s shoulders.

She stiffened slightly before letting her arms come around his middle, just below his wings. And then Elain heard her say, so quietly only they could hear, “thank you for taking care of her. Her joy brings me joy as well.”

Azriel nodded his agreement before letting her go to the sound of Rhys’s dramatic huff.

“Well that settles it; I’ve officially seen everything.”

He met Nesta’s answering scowl with a wicked grin, adding, “You never offered to hug me, Nesta.”

Nesta bared her teeth.

“That’s because I still loathe you the majority of the time.”

“That means there must be at least a few days where you find me tolerable, so I’ll consider it a victory.”

“Shut up, Rhysand,” Feyre and Mor chorused in unison, and Rhys only shrugged, wincing a little as well Amren slapped him upside the head.

“If Rhys is done being an ass,” Cassian said, falling back to stand at Nesta’s side, his fingers just barely brushing hers even as his gaze remained on Elain and Azriel. “Shall we celebrate?”

Nuala and Cerridwen appeared with sparkling wine, and they all raised their glasses in salute.

“To the Seer and the Shadowsinger,” Amren offered. “Many happy returns to you both.”

Elain nodded her teary thanks and leaned up to kiss Azriel, ignoring Cassian’s obnoxious wolf whistle the minute their lips touched.

They stayed on the patio until darkness swept in before dining under the stars, sharing joyous stories from the past four years and discussing the wedding and what lay beyond it. Feyre and Mor’s combined vision of the nuptuals already had Elain’s head spinning, but a glance at Azriel was all it took to calm her nerves. Just as he’d told her all those years ago, she could do anything, and with him by her side, anything really did feel like the easiest thing in the world.

However, when Mor began extemporizing about a ceremony in front of the whole of Velaris, Elain cut in, eager to change the subject.

“I have more happy news to share. I spoke to Lucien this morning, and he’s formally accepted his title as Helion’s heir. He’s moving to Alessandrina within the month. And,” she added, squeezing Azriel’s hand. “Vassa is going with him.”

“That’s so lovely,” Feyre said, even as Nesta rolled her eyes. If there was one male she held in lower regard than Rhys, it was Lucien.

“I have exciting news as well,” Mor announced. "Kallias has made Viviane High Lady.”

“It’s about time,” Rhys said, mouth full of lamb. “Who told you that?”

Mor bit her lip with uncharacteristic bashfulness.

“Ellaria.”

“Viv’s sister? I didn’t realize you two were such good friends.”

“We aren’t,” Mor said, blushing a little now, too.

Elain felt the cool brush of Azriel’s shadows as they whispered in his ear, and she turned in silent question only for him to raise his eyebrows and smirk, as if to say,  _“wait for it.”_

“Am I missing something?” Rhys prompted, but before Mor could reply, Amren cut in, “they’re lovers.”

“Amren!” Mor hissed, though she couldn’t quite hide her pleased smile.

“Please, girl, you are so obvious,” Amren said, glancing at her nails in feigned boredom. “Varian and I have known for months.”

Mor shot Varian an incredulous look, which he met with a sheepish shrug.

“Well is it serious?” Rhys pressed, and Mor bit her lip and nodded.

“I’m going to stay in Winter after Viv’s coronation. I think she might be—“

“Your mate?” Feyre demanded. “Please tell me you were going to say, ‘my mate’.”

“My mate,” Mor confirmed, letting out a soft, giddy laugh. “And if not that, then hopefully my wife.”

Elain felt her heart swelling for the female, not only because of her own affection, but for Azriel’s affection as well. She knew how  he longed to see his friend happy, and it brought her joy to know Mor had seemed to find it—and peace—at last.

“Well,” she said, beaming at Azriel. “That’s all wonderful news. It only makes Az and my day that much more special.”

“Anyone else have a joyous bombshell they’d like to—“ Rhys said with a smirk, but Cassian cut him off with a blurted, “I’m having a baby.”

Amren, who’d been indulging in a sip of wine, spewed it all over Varian as Feyre dropped her fork and Rhys barked a laugh.

“We’re having a baby,” Cassian repeated in a softer tone, and when he glanced across the table, everyone’s eyes careened in the direction he was looking, landing on a Nesta who’d gone bone white.

There was a beat of absolute silence as everyone gawked.

“Is that true?” Elain finally breathed, reaching for her sister’s hand. “Are you pregnant?”

Nesta’s lips trembled in a gesture of uncharacteristic vulnerability. Finally, she glanced up at Cassian, tears in her eyes and the most heartbreakingly gentle smile on her face. It was a look Elain had  _never_ seen on her sister’s face, and she felt tear spring to her eyes as well.

“Yes,” Nesta said finally, the smile widening as she gave a little sob. “It’s true.”

“Cauldron!” Feyre said, leaping to her feet. “ _Cauldron_ , I’m going to be an aunt!”

Nesta let out a croaked laugh, and Elain and Feyre folded her into a hug as Rhys, Azriel, Amren, and Mor surrounded Cassian.

“Congratulations, brother,” Rhys said, bracing Cassian’s shoulder as the latter grinned himself.

“I can’t believe you didn’t say something sooner!” Elain said, exchanging a quick glance with Azriel, knowing they were thinking the same thing. Someday this would be them.

“And how the Hell were you able to mask your scent?” Rhys said, still shaking a laughing Cassian’s shoulder.

“Because you’re not as clever as you think you are,” Nesta snarled.

At this, Cassian beamed.

“Ah, there’s the female I fell in love with.”

“Quiet, you,” Nesta commanded, through she’d broken away from her sister’s embrace to fold into Cassian’s waiting arms.

“ _Те kакам,”_ he breathed onto her hair, and she nodded her agreement, pressing her cheek to his broad chest to hide the tears on her cheeks.

“Well don’t make us wait,” Feyre said, retreating to Rhys’s side as  Elain floated to Azriel’s. “Kiss, you two!”

Nesta whipped her head to give her youngest sister a fierce scowl, a gesture which Feyre simply met with a good-natured eyeroll.

“Oh, go on,” she said. “After five years, I think you owe us that much at least.”

“She has a point,” Cassian purred, touching Nesta’s chin to win her gaze back from Feyre.

“I’m not going to cow to—“ Nesta began, but Cassian cut her off with his lips, and after a moment of stiffness, she relaxed into his touch, and Varian whistled as Mor stopped her feet in approval.

“Don’t just stand there!” Feyre said to Rhys, slapping his arm in childlike glee. “Go get the bottle of Jeroboam!”

“But that wine is—“

“No one cares how expensive it is,” Nesta said, turning to sneer at Rhys even as she remained in the cradle of Cassian’s arms. “My daughter won’t drink swill.”

Cassian laughed and kissed Nesta’s cheek as Mor squawked, “It’s a girl? Hurry  _up_ , Rhys!”

The table exploded in a flurry, and Elain and Azriel retreated from the heart of the meleé to watch from a ways off, arms around one another.

“I’m so happy for them,” Elain breathed, pressing her cheek  against his heart and basking in their own private bliss.

“As am I,” he said, kissing her temple. “Though I’m sorry your night has been overshadowed.”

“Don’t be,” Elain said, watching as Rhys poured the wine and called out a joyous toast. She glanced up to touch his cheek, a tendril of his darkness twining through her fingers even as he smiled. “I happen to love the shadows.”


End file.
